


Tenebrous

by Alette



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Other, Personification, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21902995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alette/pseuds/Alette
Summary: The darkness is alive. And it is in love with Choi San.
Relationships: Choi San/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 517
Kudos: 506





	1. Stalked

**Author's Note:**

> _adj._ \- shut off from the light
> 
> Okay let's get into this. Some things to note.
> 
>   * This is even more self-indulgent than my other fics. Make of that what you will
>   * I promise this is a sanhwa fic
>   * Both the M/M and Other relationship categories apply. This will make itself apparent when you read
>   * Themes of unhealthy relationship are strong in this one. Your girl's trying something new
>   * There are some horror elements, but they disappear soon
>   * This fic will be a bit... spicier than my others. I'm sorry to finally give you the spicy content in this sort of fic (but not really hahaha)
> 

> 
> Okay that's it! I hope you enjoy this fic ^^♡

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was something in the room with him.

The bedroom in San’s new apartment was dark. 

There was one window, and it opened up to a solid wall less than ten feet away. It was dim and gloomy during the day. At night, it made the room pitch black. The proximity of the next building over blocked out every hue of the electric lights in this cramped, shitty corner of Seoul. Not even a wisp of moonlight could float in.

“Your bedroom’s kind of creepy,” said Wooyoung. He toed one of the boxes he’d just hauled up the stairs. The apartment building had no elevator. 

“Only because it’s still empty,” said San. “You’ll see, after I put all my posters and plushes up it’ll be awesome.”

“Are you sure you don’t wanna stay with me and Yeosang until you’re done with all that?” asked Wooyoung. “It’s really creepy in here.”

“It’ll be fine,” insisted San. He beamed. “It’s my room, so what if it’s a little dark?”

Wooyoung didn’t look convinced, but Hongjoong came up beside him, saying, “I think it’s a good idea for San to get used to his new apartment.”

“Besides, if there are any demons or ghosts or whatever, San-hyung would probably invite them to share chips with him,” said Jongho, grinning as he set down three stacked boxes in the center of the tiny combined living-dining room. 

“Don’t even talk about that,” yelled Mingi from the stairwell. He was bringing up the last of San’s things. “I swear if a freaking ghost shows up I am _gone_.”

San laughed. “There are no ghosts here,” he said. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m hungry.”

They took a quick snack break, and then spent the rest of the afternoon unloading most of San’s belongings. By the time the sun went down and the shadows started lengthening, the majority of the work was done, and everyone left for their homes.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay here alone?” asked Wooyoung as he hovered by the door.

“I’ll be fine,” insisted San. “Now get your butt home before it gets too late.”

In the end San had to shoo Wooyoung out of his apartment, and when he was finally alone he leaned against the door and sighed contentedly. The place was small and empty and, yes, dark, but it was going to be home. It would be the first time San would be living alone in his twenty years, and he decided to make it special.

He spent some time arranging things, unloading the few things left in the boxes, fixing his bed. Then he fixed himself a quick dinner and sat down in his living room.

As he slurped his noodles San flipped through the campus magazine he’d picked up earlier that day. He was in the second year of his illustration degree, and he’d finally gotten a good enough job to move out of the cramped dorm rooms. He skimmed the articles until he found one worth reading: a feature on the university gardening club. One entire page of the two-page spread was taken up by a picture of the club president, a very handsome young man with black hair and strong features. 

“Park Seonghwa,” murmured San. He wondered if Park Seonghwa was interested in men, or single. San could find out. He could join the club, maybe, or find someone who was already a member and ask—

San stopped and slapped his cheek before he got carried away. What was he doing, already plotting some way to snag this guy who he literally only saw once in a magazine?

“You need to date,” he muttered to himself. He was getting lonely.

He wondered if living alone in this dark apartment would make things better or worse.

After he was done eating and washing up San arranged a couple of things in his bedroom, wasted time online. And then it was finally time to go to bed.

As soon as he turned the lights off, the room went pitch black.

The dark was completely opaque. It was unsettling, but San refused to give in to his fears and sleep with the light on. He was an adult. He didn’t need a nightlight. 

He wasn’t afraid of the dark. 

He groped his way to the bed—thankfully, they’d gotten it in earlier in the day, so he didn’t have to sleep on the floor—and climbed in. It wasn’t cold but San found himself burrowing in under the sheets, pulling them tight around him. He closed his eyes, telling himself everything was fine, that he was just uncomfortable because it was new.

But he couldn’t sleep. The dark was so solid it was oppressive. San closed his eyes and it was dark; he opened them and it was the same. It was like a curtain drawn over him, keeping everything from view, and he didn’t know what was hiding behind it. He could imagine _things_ in the dark, things with eyes that didn’t glow but watched him all the same, ready, waiting. 

Slowly, like the stretch of a shadow as the sun sets, San realized he was right.

There was something in the room with him. He could feel its presence even if he couldn’t see it. Like a cloud its aura hung around him, and he could see it in his mind’s eye, filling up every corner of the room. 

San wasn’t alone in his apartment.

He gripped the sheets, trying to ground himself, to calm himself. What should he do? Should he get up and run, hope whatever it was wouldn’t catch him? Would he be able to make it out of the room in the dark? Should he lie still and pray it disappeared? Was anything even there? San could _feel_ it, but it might be nothing more than his imagination, a combination of the darkness and being alone—

He lay where he was, torn, gut churning, when he felt it.

A touch on his cheek.

San froze. That hadn’t been his imagination. That had been solid and tangible and _real_.

There was something in the room with him. 

“I’m sorry,” whispered San, and he didn’t know what he was apologizing for, only that he should, only that he didn’t want to die. “Please. Don’t.”

Nothing. No words whispered back, no touch on his face or around his throat or anywhere else.

San didn’t move. He lay there, every muscle in his body as taut as a tightly wound spring, heart pounding. He didn’t know what the thing in the room was. He didn’t know what it wanted from him. He only knew it was in there with him, watching, waiting for… something.

He felt another touch.

Terror clutched his chest, until he realized what it was. It was his phone. It was being pushed against his hand, gently, not forcefully at all. San grabbed it and unlocked it with shaking fingers.

Light filled the room. The phone screen wasn’t that bright, but in the inky blackness of the room it shone like a beacon. The light blinded San, and he needed a moment to adjust, blinking rapidly, before he was able to turn on the flashlight. 

Nothing jumped out of him from the dark corners of the room. Nothing grabbed him from behind, squeezing his throat or reaching its claws into his gut. Nothing happened at all beyond light filling his little section of the room, giving him comfort.

It wasn’t just comfort, San realized. It was safety.

He was alone. The thing that had been in his room, the thing that had been watching and waiting and had touched him—it was gone.

San scrambled out of bed and turned on the lights. In the safety of the lit room, he wrapped himself in his sheets and pressed his back against the wall, holding himself close. 

“San, you look like death.”

Yeosang looked concerned, and San understood why. He looked terrible. Dark circles hung under his eyes, his skin was pale, cheeks hollow and face gaunt. Yeosang’s comparison wasn’t far off.

“Couldn’t sleep last night,” said San, offering a weak smile. 

“Is it because of your new apartment?” asked Yeosang. “Wooyoung said it was a little creepy.”

San hesitated. “I think.”

The truth was he didn’t know. He didn’t know if the thing he had felt the night before was a part of the apartment, or if it had followed him there from somewhere else. All he knew was that he couldn’t sleep as long as it was there. He’d drifted off a couple of times the night before, a few minutes at a stretch, but had jerked awake every time. The room had been brightly lit but when he closed his eyes, everything was dark. San found that he couldn’t bear the dark anymore.

“Do you wanna stay with us awhile?” asked Yeosang, concerned, sincere. “Until all your stuff comes in and you’re comfortable there.”

San would never be comfortable there. Not until _it_ was gone. But he couldn’t tell Yeosang that, so he just propped up a smile and said, “Thanks. I think that’s a good idea.”

He spent a few nights with Wooyoung and Yeosang, and then he stayed over at Hongjoong’s, and then he snuck into Yunho and Mingi’s dorm room and slept a few nights there. None of his friends said anything. They knew he’d been lonely recently, that he wasn’t used to living alone, and they let him stay without hesitation. But San knew he couldn’t keep running forever. He had to return to his dark bedroom eventually, and he had to face the thing that lived there.

The first few nights he had been glad just to be with Wooyoung and Yeosang in their apartment overlooking a busy street, where there was always light peeking through the curtains and true dark never fell. But the longer he was able to stay away from whatever thing had touched him, the more San wanted to know about it. 

He decided he had accurately guessed its weakness: light. But the only reason he had figured that out was because of whatever had been in the darkness. It had pushed the phone into his hand. It had given San his safety.

And San wanted to know why.

So after his second night hiding in Yunho’s bed when the RA came around, San decided to go back home.

His apartment was fully decorated when he walked back in on a clear autumn afternoon. The others had helped him move all his things in, get them settled, even given him housewarming gifts. San felt guilty for accepting them all when he hadn’t even stayed in his apartment more than one night. 

But that was going to change. Whatever was in the darkness, San wasn’t going to let it force him out of his own place. He’d paid rent in advance.

He spent the afternoon working on assignments, getting things ready for future classes. In the light of the autumn sun everything felt normal, peaceful. It was only as the sun started to set, as everything was painted first golden then red and then indigo, did the unease seep in, sinking past San’s skin and deep into bone.

He ordered dinner, ate it sitting at his tiny dining table. Then he watched a few shows on his laptop. But San knew all he was doing was delaying the inevitable. The night deepened, the shadows in his apartment grew stronger, and he knew he couldn’t fight it anymore. He had to face the thing.

As the clock neared midnight, San turned off all the lights in his apartment and went to bed.

He sat up in bed, back to the wall, and waited. His heart pounded so heavily in his chest he was worried it would climb up into his throat and choke him. San sat still, phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline, and waited.

For some time, nothing happened. All San could feel was his own heart thudding in his ribcage. And then, slowly, that feeling crept up on him, running over his skin lighter than a feather. That feeling of being watched. He was no longer alone.

San had never before felt fear like this. Knowing that he wasn’t safe even in his own home, that whatever it was with him didn’t care that he knew it existed. It wasn’t scared of him. He was terrified of it.

But he couldn’t live like this anymore. He needed to know. So San swallowed the lump in his throat and asked, “Who are you?”

His voice sounded small and pathetic in the infinite darkness. The foreign presence in his room didn’t change. He could still feel the weight of a gaze on him, a gaze that could never be human.

San didn’t know what answer he’d expected. Another touch, maybe. Could the thing speak? Could it talk with a human voice? “Wh—what are you?” San tried again, and his voice was steadier this time. 

No answer. No touch, no sound. Only the same feeling of being watched.

“I want to know what you are,” said San, and he sounded pathetically desperate to his own ears. “What do you want from me? Why me? If you’re going to—to kill me, please, just tell me what I did—”

Something touched his foot. San jumped, and then scrambled with his phone light. As soon as light bloomed in the darkness the presence retreated, but not completely as it had before. It was still watching, but from a distance. 

The touch on San’s foot had been nothing but a notebook, a completely normal notebook he sometimes scribbled designs in. A notebook he had left on his bedside table.

It was open, and something had been written in it.

With trembling hands, San picked it up and shone his phone light at it. 

The script was fluent, a little messy. It was only two lines, right in the center of the page, one on top of the other.

> _I’m sorry I scared you_
> 
> _I swear I’ll never hurt you_

San stared at the words. His heart was still pounding out a staccato rhythm, but he couldn’t hear it anymore. He couldn’t process anything anymore. All he could see were those words, written in plain black ink on paper, like they had been burned into his brain. 

The thing in the darkness was talking to him.

San sat, frozen, barely aware of anything, until his phone light went black. And then he was in the dark again.

“Why me?” he whispered to the darkness. “What do you want with me?”

In San’s hands, the notebook moved. He could feel it dip as a pen pressed into it, gliding across the surface. It was writing again.

And then the motion stopped, and San unlocked his phone and turned on the light.

Two words, right below what had been written before.

> _You’re beautiful_

San stared at the words until his phone light died.

Before he could say anything, the notebook dipped again. This message was longer. It took more time than the one before, and San could sense pauses in the movement, like the thing in the dark was thinking hard before writing.

Finally, it was done, and the pressure of the pen stopped. The message under San’s phone light was written to one side, neatly in the margin. 

> _I’m sorry_
> 
> _I never wanted to scare you_
> 
> _If you want I’ll leave and never come back_

“No, wait,” said San quickly. He realized his screen was still illuminated, and hurriedly locked his phone. He didn’t know if the entity would even be able to hear him with the light on. “Wait,” he said again, this time into the darkness. “Don’t. I want—I want to talk to you.”

He didn’t get an answer, no press of pen on paper. San waited with baited breath, but he received nothing. He didn’t know why he told it to stay. Was he losing his mind? There was something in the darkness, something that couldn’t be human, and he wanted it to stay. Why? 

It made no sense, not even to San himself, but San believed it. He believed it when it said it wouldn’t hurt him. He believed it when it offered to leave.

And he didn’t want it to leave.

“Can you talk?” asked San. “I know you understand me, and you can write…”

The notebook moved again in his hands, and San waited until it was done before checking the message.

> _I can talk but you won’t hear me with your ears_

“Like telepathy?” asked San. “You can talk in my mind?”

The answer came quick. 

> _Yes_

“Can you read my mind?”

> _No I can only go where I am_

“Where you are?” San didn’t understand. “Where are you?”

This time the answer took longer in coming, more pauses in the writing. When San checked the notebook he was surprised to find only two words.

> _Around you_

San swallowed. The feeling of being watched, that oppressive heaviness of the sensation… that _was_ it? Not only its reach?

“Talk to me,” he said. “I want to hear your voice.”

Silence followed, stretching long enough for San to give up hope. And then—

<San.>

The voice was inside San’s head, but it wasn’t his voice. It wasn’t the voice he spoke to himself in, the voice he let out only his deepest secrets with. This was something completely alien.

This was the entity in the darkness.

“Yes,” said San. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. 

<I’m sorry for scaring you. I should’ve known you were awake. I was careless.>

“So you’ve… touched me… before,” said San, forcing the words out. It felt strange, to talk aloud to a voice in his mind, a voice that wasn’t his. 

<No. This was the first time. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.>

“It…” San swallowed. What was he about to say? It was okay? “Who are you?”

<I am not who. I am.>

“I don’t understand,” said San. “What’s your name?”

<I have no name. I wasn’t born; I’ve only ever existed.>

“Just tell me who or what you are,” said San. “I—I need to know. Are you some kind of demon? Why can’t you come in the light?”

<I am no demon. I can’t come in the light because I don’t exist in the light.>

“What?” San was only getting more confused. “What do you mean you don’t exist? How—”

<San.> The voice was gentle, calm. <I am the dark.>

San didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. “What? How can you—I don’t—”

<I am not something hiding in the dark,> said the voice in his mind. <I am not a demon, or a ghost or spirit. I am the dark itself.>

San wanted to refuse it, to say that it was impossible, but he couldn’t. What was impossible to him now? Something in the darkness had watched him, caressed his cheek, written him messages in a notebook and now spoke inside his head. What was impossible?

“You’re really the darkness,” said San. The tremor touched his voice despite his best efforts. “You’re… it.”

<Yes.> There was hesitation, and then the voice—the dark—said, <I know this is too much for your mind to grasp. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this.>

“No, it’s okay,” blurted out San. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want that voice to leave. He didn’t care if it was a demon or spirit or even the personification of the darkness. There was something about it inside his mind that soothed him. 

<I scared you.>

It sounded… remorseful. “You did,” said San. “But it’s… you didn’t hurt me. It’s fine.” 

<I shouldn’t have done it.>

“I’m glad you did,” murmured San, so softly he barely heard himself.

He didn’t get an answer, but somehow he knew it had heard him. It was the darkness. It could hear and see everything in itself.

“Do you have a name?” asked San. “Something I can call you by?”

<No. No one’s called me before.>

There was something uncertain in the words, a type of wistful hope that touched the deepest strings in San’s heart. He couldn’t imagine the loneliness that came with being what it was.

“Can I call you by something?” asked San. “It just feels a little weird to not call you anything…” He chuckled awkwardly.

<You can call me anything.> A pause, and then, <You look unreal when you smile.>

Heat rushed to San’s face. “Stop,” he muttered, but he couldn’t deny the rush of pleasure in his gut.

<Too much? I don’t know how to lie.>

“Just… not right now,” said San, hiding a smile behind a hand. He didn’t know if that made any difference. If the voice really was the darkness, it would be able to see it anyway.

<Alright, later then.>

The words were so earnest, spoken so straightforwardly. It really couldn’t lie. 

And it had called San beautiful.

<What do you want to call me?>

The words brought San back to the present. He closed his eyes, thinking it over. A name. A name for this voice in his mind, this voice that had gone to him even when it had known it shouldn’t, that had offered to leave if he wanted it to. The voice that said he was beautiful and, fuck, made him really feel like he was. 

A name for a beautiful man, maybe, one San could imagine in the darkness leaning over him, running his fingers over his cheek… 

“Seonghwa,” he said. “Is that okay?”

Silence. And then, <Yes.>

“Okay,” said San. He couldn’t quite explain the warmth he felt from that one word, but he liked it.

<Thank you,> said Seonghwa. <For letting me… be with you, just like this.>

In the darkness, San broke into a smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The darkness technically has no gender (thus the Other) but San refers to it as male so it's kind of M/M too?  
> Please help me tag this fic i have no idea what to do


	2. Admired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, like the moon’s pull on the waves, San felt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for all the interest you've shown this fic! I hope you like this chapter too ♡

“Hey, wanna go out for drinks with us tonight? Hongjoong-hyung’s buying.”

“Sorry, I’m busy,” said San, as he slid his notebook into his bag. He smiled. “Maybe tomorrow afternoon.”

“Afternoon? Who the hell goes drinking in the afternoon?” demanded Wooyoung. 

“You can drink any time,” said San. “Ask Hongjoong-hyung, he’ll tell you.”

“Hongjoong-hyung is one failed project away from becoming an alcoholic,” said Wooyoung, following San out of the lecture hall. “When did you become a day-drinker?”

“I’m not, but I can’t go out at night,” said San.

“Afraid of the dark?” snorted Wooyoung.

San smiled, mostly to himself. “Just busy,” he said. 

Wooyoung peered at him. “Doing what?” He looked curious, but also a touch concerned. “Every time we invite you for a night out you say you’re busy.”

“That’s a secret,” said San, grinning mischievously. Wooyoung laughed and shoved him. “What about coffee tomorrow afternoon, then? We’ll go to that place Yeosang likes.”

That was enough to get Wooyoung off his back. They finalized plans for the next day, and then split to go to their homes, Wooyoung to the place he shared with Yeosang, San to his small, dark apartment.

It was late afternoon by the time he got home, sunset approaching as a wash of golds and oranges on the horizon. San dropped his bag in the living room, took his time showering and changing. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror some time, parting his hair first to one side, then the other, before finally deciding he liked it best all pushed back. He fixed himself a snack and then sat on his bed in his bedroom with the window that faced the wall, while outside the light died.

Slowly, like the moon’s pull on the waves, San felt him.

“Hi,” he said. He ate another spoonful of cereal. “How was your day?”

No answer. San leaned back and kept on eating, waiting.

The sun dipped lower and lower, until shadows stretched inside the room and melded together, until there were no more sharp shadows, until there was no more light. Darkness bloomed inside San’s room like a flower.

<It was good. What about yours?>

“Good,” said San. “Had a ton of classes, but only one was boring. The professor’s this dude who talks _really_ slow, and his voice seriously puts me to sleep. He could make a fortune singing lullabies or something.”

<Only you?> asked Seonghwa. 

“Everyone,” said San.

<Oh, good,> said Seonghwa with what sounded like a chuckle. <I wondered if you were the only one imagining your teacher singing you a lullaby.>

“Yuck,” squawked San. “He’s a million years old!” 

<Really? Around my age then,> said Seonghwa, and San laughed. 

“What about you?” he asked. “What did you do?”

<Nothing interesting,> said Seonghwa. <San, love, put your bowl on the table. You’ll spill milk.>

San rolled his eyes and put the bowl away. He knew his room perfectly in the dark by now. “Happy now?”

<Yes,> said Seonghwa, and he did sound satisfied. <I thought cereal was a breakfast food.>

“Time doesn’t exist, Seonghwa,” said San. He stopped. “Does it? Is there an entity of time out there? Will I wake up one day with time talking in my mind?”

Seonghwa laughed. <No,> he said. <All you have is me.>

San hummed. That didn’t sound too bad.

He spent every night he could with Seonghwa. He’d worked out that Seonghwa could be present even in dimly lit places, but didn’t have the strength to speak clearly unless the room was very dark. San’s bedroom was very dark, so he spent most of his time in there. In it, he was more used to the darkness than the light. 

Most days San would finish his shift at the newspaper office where he worked part-time and return home in the early evening to a dark apartment and Seonghwa waiting for him. Other days, like today, he could sit and enjoy the sunset, feel Seonghwa’s presence grow and swirl around him, until it was so thick he could reach out and imagine touching it.

They would listen to music together, or to podcasts or audiobooks. Seonghwa was intelligent, but not overwhelming. He was interested in stories and liked talking about the ones he enjoyed enough to remember from the stretch of his infinite existence. He liked listening too. He always wanted to know about San’s day, no matter how boring it was, and he listened with such sincere interest San never felt awkward telling him. San never felt awkward around him at all. 

It was strangely comfortable. In the dark San didn’t need to close his eyes to imagine Seonghwa, the beautiful club president Park Seonghwa, sitting beside him, talking and laughing and listening to him. He kept that page from the magazine feature in his bedside drawer, but he didn’t even need to look at it anymore. He knew Seonghwa’s features as well as his own and imagined them perfectly, just there beside him in the darkness, watching him with warmth. Only San could never touch him, no matter how he reached out. 

“Where were you while I was out?” asked San.

<Italy,> said Seonghwa. <There was a storm and a cottage in the countryside lost power. An elderly couple live there.>

“Oh no, all alone?” asked San, frowning. 

<It’s okay, I made sure they were alright,> said Seonghwa. <The husband nearly tripped when he went to look for a light but I moved the chair out of his way.>

“Oh, that’s good,” said San. “You’re so sweet.”

<Not really,> said Seonghwa, a little embarrassment coloring his voice. 

But San thought he really was. There were fewer places Seonghwa could manifest in the cities, but so many places were open to him and he still chose to go where he thought people might need help. He still chose to spend time with San.

He could touch things in darkness this deep, San remembered. But he didn’t touch San, not since that first night he had touched his cheek.

<Are you okay?>

“Hmm?” San came back to the present. “Yeah, why?”

<You were frowning,> said Seonghwa. He sounded concerned. <Did anything happen?>

“No, it’s nothing,” said San, putting up a smile. “I was just thinking about my grandparents. I know my aunt and uncle take care of them but, you know…” 

<You love them, so you worry about them,> said Seonghwa. <I know.>

There was something about the way he said the last two words that settled in San’s chest. It rubbed up against his heart, sending it fluttering.

<I can check up on them at night, if you want,> offered Seonghwa.

“No, it’s okay,” said San. “I was just thinking about nothing, I know.”

A hum resounded in San’s mind. <I’ll still check on them sometimes, if that’s alright.>

The flutter turned to warmth. San hummed and nodded.

Seonghwa told him about a few other places he had been since the night before. Russia, Namibia, the hull of a ship in the Atlantic. Peru.

“Wow,” said San, awed. “What’s Peru like?”

<The place I went to was beautiful,> said Seonghwa. <In the middle of a huge field, no people, no lights. All the constellations spread out overhead. I think you would’ve been able to trace the Milky Way there.>

“It must be stunning,” said San. He could imagine it, Seonghwa lying on his back in the field, watching the stars move across the night sky.

<You’d fit right in,> said Seonghwa.

San laughed. “Oh, my god.”

<What? It was the perfect opening,> said Seonghwa, incredibly pleased. <How was I supposed to let it go?>

“We were talking about the stars,” said San with a giggle. 

<You’re a star, San.>

He said it with utter honesty, like everything he said. San felt heat bloom in his face and instinctively raised his hands to cover it.

<You look very cute like this,> said Seonghwa. <But you know I can still see you when you do that.>

“Just pretend like you can’t,” mumbled San.

<Okay,> said Seonghwa. He sounded amused. <I pretend I see nothing.>

“You’re the worst,” said San. “The meanest supernatural entity I’ve ever met.”

<You were calling me sweet ten minutes ago,> said Seonghwa. 

“You’re sweet to everyone except me,” said San, but even as he said it he knew it was a poor joke.

<What do you want, San?> asked Seonghwa. <Whatever you want, if it’s within my power, it’s yours. I’m sorry I can’t do much for you. I can’t take you to Peru.>

“I don’t want anything,” said San. “I don’t want to go to Peru. I want to stay here, with you.” He leaned forward, trying to sink into Seonghwa’s ink-like presence, and stretched on the bed like a cat. 

<You can tell me if there’s anything you want,> said Seonghwa. <I’m not… like you so I can’t do all the things—>

“Seonghwa, stop,” said San firmly. “I don’t want anything except to be here, right now, with you. I’m sorry I said that. You are sweet. I don’t want anything else.”

Silence. And then, <I’m sorry. You were joking. I didn’t understand.>

“You don’t need to say sorry,” said San. “I’m the one who said something dumb.” He wanted to take Seonghwa in his arms, hold him tight and press his face to his neck, but he had no body for San to hold. 

<No, I should’ve understood,> said Seonghwa. <I’m not used to this.>

“To me?” asked San, voice soft.

<To talking,> said Seonghwa. <I just watch humans. I don’t talk to them, or with them. Everything that I’ve learned is from what I’ve observed in me.>

What he’d observed in the dark. Sometimes San forgot what Seonghwa really was. “You must’ve seen a lot,” he said.

<A fair amount,> said Seonghwa. <There are some things I’ll never see, I know.>

San thought of all the beautiful things in the light. The light itself. Fairy lights on a string, the old lanterns his grandparents sometimes lit, the morning sun and sunrise. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

<You don’t need to say sorry,> said Seonghwa. They were San’s words given back to him, wrapped in warmth. <I’m just glad to see you. Let’s talk about something else.>

They listened to a few songs together, some old, some new. San played the song Wooyoung and Yeosang were learning choreography to in their dance crew. Seonghwa said it was good.

“The choreo to this is really cool too,” said San. 

<There’s a dance to this?> asked Seonghwa. <It must be good.>

“It is,” said San. “Wait, let me show you.”

He climbed out of bed. He was fearless in the dark now, knowing every inch of the room by memory. San stretched, running through the moves in his head. He liked dancing, but he wasn’t as good as Wooyoung or Yeosang, and he didn’t practice as often. He tried to shake off the nerves. It would be okay, he told himself. He was dancing only for Seonghwa, and Seonghwa admired him no matter what. 

San started the track, and fell still.

He let the music carry his movements. He tried not to overthink the moves, hit them sharp and clean. The song was fast and hard but fluid, and San had to work hard to keep up, to get the movements out in full and on time.

He stepped into a spin and slipped. He lurched forward, and just got his arms in front of him to brace for the impact with the hard floor.

But it never came. San stopped halfway to the floor, caught by… something.

<Are you okay?> asked Seonghwa, as San was slowly pushed back upright. 

“I’m—I’m okay,” said San. The touch was there, all over his chest and arms, pressure but no warmth. “You caught me.”

<You slipped,> said Seonghwa. <You were amazing before that, though.>

“Thank you,” murmured San. The praise was wonderful, but all he could of think was the touch. It was gone now, and he missed it. He climbed back into his bed and crawled all the way to the end, putting his back to the wall there, folding his knees up.

<Of course,> said Seonghwa. <Sorry, but you should be more careful. You could’ve gotten hurt.>

Why was he apologizing? “You caught me,” repeated San.

<I did,> said Seonghwa. He sounded amused at San’s surprise. <I can move things in here, you know. I tidy up while you’re asleep.>

“Oh,” said San. 

<Oh? You thought your jackets and things got back in your closet by magic?> teased Seonghwa.

“You’re kind of magic,” said San.

<I’m not,> said Seonghwa. He suddenly sounded serious, all joking gone. <I just exist, San. I’m as magic as you. Less, I think.>

“You’re magic to me,” said San. He hesitated. “I was just surprised because you don’t… touch me.”

Silence. When Seonghwa finally spoke, his voice was soft. <You didn’t say I could.>

San swallowed. “You can.”

For a moment, nothing happened. And then he felt it. 

A touch, feather light, on his foot. Uncertain almost, it moved up, tracing the curve of his ankle. And then it was heavier, more sure, and it went higher, running up his calf, twisting around to feel around his leg. It went up to his knee, resting on the bone there, and then down again, sliding to the inside of his thigh—

San gasped. “Not—not there.”

The touch disappeared, and came back on his torso, right at the base of his ribcage. It moved up to feel San’s chest, flat and heavy, like hands exploring his body. He could imagine Seonghwa there, in the darkness and not the darkness itself, leaning over him and touching him. His hands were eager but tender, like San was something precious. San gasped again, pressing his back to the wall as Seonghwa moved up to his collarbone and then his neck, going around to slide into his hair.

<No?> It was a soft question, and the movement stopped.

“No,” said San. The feeling in his hair and head vanished, dissipated into the air. “No, wait,” he said quickly. “I mean—no. Don’t stop.”

<Is it strange for you?> asked Seonghwa, as the touch returned. It felt like hands, fingers running through San’s hair, massaging his scalp.

“Maybe a little,” said San. “But it’s… it’s good.” He relaxed, leaning his head against the wall, letting a smile spread on his face. 

<That’s good.> Seonghwa touched San’s face lightly, just a brush against his cheek, and then his other cheek, his forehead, the tip of his nose. Soft, like the press of a fingertip. Or a gentle kiss. <You look beautiful.>

San hummed. He didn’t know what to say in response. He leaned back, enjoying Seonghwa’s hands in his hair, his soft kisses on his face. He wanted to reach out and hold him around the waist, pull him close, but he knew he couldn’t do that. All it would do was ruin the fantasy.

A question swirled in San’s mind, brought forward by Seonghwa’s careful, gentle affection. San had thought of it before, mulled it over in his head a million times, but he’d never said it aloud. Tonight, after so many nights, he finally decided it was time.

“Seonghwa,” said San, voice hardly more than a murmur.

<San?>

“Why me?”

<Why? Why did I touch you? Why do I talk to you?>

San nodded.

<Because I want to,> said Seonghwa. He stopped kissing San’s face, giving him his full attention. <And because you’re beautiful.>

“You told me that before,” said San, feeling warmth spread in his chest, that warmth only Seonghwa could set off.

<I meant it before too.>

“I know,” said San softly. 

<I can’t lie,> said Seonghwa.

San knew that too. “I just wanted to know if that was all,” he said. “If maybe there was anything else…”

He felt disgusting for asking. Seonghwa called him beautiful, and no one had ever called San beautiful like that and really meant it, enough to convince him it might actually be true. But it wasn’t enough for San’s greedy heart. He wanted to hear Seonghwa say he was special too. He wanted to know he was special to Seonghwa, that if someone truly beautiful came, Seonghwa wouldn’t leave him.

<What other reason are you looking for?> asked Seonghwa, earnest as ever. 

“Nothing,” said San. He was crestfallen and fought to hide it. He would not hurt Seonghwa with his disappointment. 

There was a pause, and then Seonghwa asked, <Do you want to hear about the first time I saw how beautiful you were?>

“You mean the night you touched my face and almost scared the shit out of me?” San laughed. “It’s okay, Seonghwa, I remember.”

<No, that wasn’t the first time.>

San sat up straight. “You saw me before? When?”

<I must’ve seen you countless times before, but I remembered you from over a year ago,> said Seonghwa. <You were in one of the dorms of your campus. You shared it with one of your friends.>

“Wooyoung?” asked San. He’d roomed the first two semesters with him before he’d moved out.

<Maybe,> said Seonghwa. <I don’t know. I never bothered learning his name.>

San giggled. “Okay. Then?”

<There was a bad storm that night,> said Seonghwa. <Your campus lost power. The rooms were pitch black.>

San remembered that night. It had been a furious storm, rain pouring down like the sky had been cut open. It lashed against the windows, water leaking through the gaps in the old glasswork, while the wind howled outside like an enraged animal. San and Wooyoung had been horribly unprepared, with only one pathetic electric torch between them and the glow of their phones to pierce through the darkness in the room. The only time San remembered seeing clearly was when lightning flashed, throwing sharp light and sharper shadows.

“You were there in the room with us,” said San.

<I was in all the rooms,> said Seonghwa. <I had my consciousness spread through them all thin. You didn’t feel me.>

“I didn’t,” said San. The only thing he had felt then was fear. 

<You were scared,> said Seonghwa. <But your friend was worse. You held him close and told him everything was going to be okay.>

“It was just a storm,” muttered San, a little embarrassed Seonghwa had seen him like that. 

<But you were scared,> said Seonghwa. <And you told your friend that. You didn’t lie and say it was nothing. You told him you were scared with him, but that it was going to be alright.>

San didn’t remember saying that. He hadn’t thought it memorable enough to remember. Seonghwa obviously felt differently.

<You comforted him the entire time,> he continued. <Like your own fear didn’t matter.>

“Well, yeah,” said San. “Wooyoung needed me. I couldn’t just… not.”

<You could’ve,> said Seonghwa. <I’ve seen so many people do so. But you didn’t.>

“I just…” San trailed off. “He’s my friend.”

<I know,> said Seonghwa. <Still, it struck me. I never saw you again properly after that night. Not until you moved here. As soon as I realized it was you, here, in a place where I was strong enough to touch you, I couldn’t stop myself.>

San didn’t know what to say. He barely remembered that night. He couldn’t believe Seonghwa did. He must’ve seen so many nights, infinite nights, and yet he remembered that one. He remembered San.

“Did you do anything that time?” asked San. “It was really dark. You could’ve.”

<I think I soothed your friend back to sleep,> said Seonghwa, after a moment’s pause. <He stirred, and you reached out for him, but you were quite far so I just… did it for you.>

“Oh,” said San. “Thank you.”

<You don’t need to thank me.>

San didn’t exactly agree, but he had no other words. 

<After that night I only hoped I could see you again,> said Seonghwa. <That was the first time I saw how you beautiful you were.>

“I didn’t know that,” said San. “You should’ve told me.”

Seonghwa chuckled softly, the sound reverberating in San’s mind. <I just did.>

San swallowed. Seonghwa spoke about it so easily, but it must’ve been something special to him for him to remember all this time. San must’ve been something special. 

The touch was back on San’s skin, cupping his face, pressing kisses into his cheeks. San closed his eyes and exhaled. The way Seonghwa touched him, talked to him, talked about him. Like he was the most valuable thing in existence. Like he was something worthy of being admired. 

San had never, in his life, thought he’d experience something like this. 

<Can I kiss you?>

San’s eyes shot open in surprise. Seonghwa let go of him immediately, and the sudden loss hurt.

<I’m sorry,> he said. <I shouldn’t have asked. That was too much—>

“Can you?” asked San.

Silence. San swallowed and asked again, “Can you? Can you kiss me, Seonghwa?”

For some time, nothing happened. No touch, no words. And then, very softly, <I can.>

“Then kiss me,” said San without hesitation.

There was silence again, but this time Seonghwa gave his answer. His hands came back, lifting San’s face gently, running into his hair at the same time. San let him move him. His eyes fell closed and he stilled, waiting.

Seonghwa kissed him.

The touch on San’s lips was light, unsure. San moved forward, trying to kiss him back, and that’s when Seonghwa deepened the kiss, pressing against San’s lips with confidence. San could see him in his mind’s eye, dark haired and handsome, kissing him with that mouth he had stared at too long in the magazine photo. Instinctively he parted his lips, and Seonghwa slid his tongue in, making San gasp. The kiss was all touch, no heat, but San didn’t care, didn’t even notice. All he could think, all he could feel, was Seonghwa.

He kissed him until he needed to breathe, and then San pulled away, gasping for air. Seonghwa was running his hands through his hair again, sweetly, affectionately. 

<How was that?> he asked. <Was it good?>

It was so good San still had trouble breathing. “Amazing,” he said, and he could almost feel Seonghwa’s satisfaction. “How did you do that?”

<I told you, I’ve learned from what I’ve observed in me,> said Seonghwa. 

“You don’t have a body,” said San. He forgot it sometimes, but it was true. Who he called Seonghwa was not Seonghwa, not the handsome gardening club president. He was the dark.

<I learned,> said Seonghwa. <I can touch, San. I touched you where I needed to.>

“Oh,” said San. He giggled. “That makes sense.” 

<Oh, you’re beautiful,> said Seonghwa. His touch was on San again, on his chest, on his face, delicate and loving.

San smiled. “Then kiss me again,” he said, and Seonghwa did. 


	3. Beloved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he had been lonely before, San wasn’t anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter of 2020! Still can't believe the interest this fic has gotten. Thank you so much, and I hope you continue to enjoy _Tenebrous_ ♡
> 
> Before we start I'd like to show off [this absolutely gorgeous fanart](https://twitter.com/heart_namgi/status/1242726145642000386?s=19) made by the incredible @heart-namgi ♡ please give it lots of love, it is stunning and I will love it forever ;;
> 
> Now on to the chapter!

It was difficult to explain San’s relationship with Seonghwa.

He couldn’t call him a friend. He talked to Seonghwa and joked with him, laughed with him like he did with his other friends. But friends didn’t touch each other the way Seonghwa touched San—at least, none of San’s friends ever did—and they didn’t hold each other the way Seonghwa held him. They didn’t talk like Seonghwa did. Like San was the most mesmerizing, most precious thing in existence, like he was blessed just to be around him, with every word colored in sincerity and honesty. 

But San couldn’t call him his boyfriend.

For one, Seonghwa wasn’t a man. He wasn’t anything. He had no body or form. And as vividly as San imagined the handsome university senior from the magazine, a little niggle in the back of his mind remained, telling him it wasn’t real, that wasn’t Seonghwa at all. He knew it was right. That _wasn’t_ Seonghwa, not the Seonghwa San knew, the one he talked to every night and who wrapped him up in honest affection.

But it was so easy to pretend. It was so easy to pretend San had a caring, handsome boyfriend who lived with him. Seonghwa tidied up San’s rooms in the night while he slept. San could drop his clothes on the floor when he got home, secure in the knowledge Seonghwa would pick them up and put them away, with only a little bit of fond scolding. The nights San came home late he found dinner covered up and ready for him, and in the mornings everything he needed for breakfast already divided up and prepped.

“How did you do all this?” San asked once, as he ate one night tucked in under his blankets.

<I can move things in the dark,> answered Seonghwa. <Your kitchen is dark. Getting things out of your fridge is the challenge.> He laughed, a warm, beautiful sound that tickled the corners of San’s mind.

“But it tastes good,” said San. “I mean—how? How did you learn how to cook?” It was difficult to remember, in the dark and with Seonghwa’s gentle touch on his knee, but Seonghwa had no body. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t taste. 

<I know how to read,> he answered. <I learned from books. And I am very good at measuring things.>

He sounded so proud San burst into a laugh. Seonghwa seemed pleased at that, running touches up the sides of San’s face.

<If you get more ingredients, I can make you more dishes,> he said.

“You don’t need to do that,” said San, though he had to admit he liked the sound of it. 

<I want to,> said Seonghwa. <I want to give you what you want, and this much, at least, I can do.>

But he did give a lot to San. He gave him his time, hours of it, as much as San wanted before he got too sleepy to stay awake. He gave him affection and care. He gave San intimacy, and it almost embarrassed San how much he craved that. But he loved it, basked in the attention, in the warm glow of Seonghwa’s loving touch. In the dark Seonghwa knew San’s body better than he knew it himself.

“But it doesn’t feel good for you,” murmured San, flat on his bed and so comfortable he felt like he was melting into it. Seonghwa was stroking his hair, leaving feather light kisses on his collarbone, and San could feel himself drifting to sleep. 

<Not like it does for you,> admitted Seonghwa. <But I like doing it. I like seeing how you react. It’s interesting.>

“Interesting?” San rolled around, until he was lying on his front.

<It’s like playing an instrument,> said Seonghwa. <I touch you in one place—> He stroked San’s cheek, and San hummed. <—and you make one kind of sound. I touch you in another—> A light touch tickled San’s foot, making him giggle. <—and another sound comes out. Like an instrument. A piano or a harp.>

He made everything sound wonderful, like he always did. It was one of Seonghwa’s talents. “You know how to play music?” asked San.

<In a way,> said Seonghwa. <People leave musical instruments in the dark all the time, and I’ve played them before. But I’m not good with sheet music.>

“Oh, I can teach you,” said San eagerly. “I know how to read music. I’ll get a keyboard or something, and then we can play together.”

<That sounds nice,> said Seonghwa. 

His words were tinted with sadness. “What’s wrong?” asked San. 

<Nothing.>

“No, something’s wrong,” said San, sitting up. Seonghwa’s touch left him and didn’t return. “Seonghwa. Tell me.”

For a long time there was silence, and San could only feel Seonghwa’s presence in the air around him. And then, very softly, Seonghwa said, <I think I’m going to lose you.>

“What?” San frowned, brow furrowing. “Why would you think that?”

<It’s just a feeling I have,> said Seonghwa. <Like what we have is fleeting. Like it’ll just… end.>

“You’re being silly,” said San. He said it jokingly, trying to lighten the mood, but his heart ached for Seonghwa. He reached out, trying to gather up his presence hanging mist-like in the air, hold it close to his chest. “No one’s going anywhere.” 

A pause, and then Seonghwa asked, <So you won’t leave me?>

San huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I?”

Silence followed San’s words. And then a light touch fell on his face, like fingers against his cheek, and Seonghwa said, <Then I won’t leave you, San.>

San smiled, nuzzling into the touch. Another rested on his other cheek, gently cradling his face, and then Seonghwa kissed him.

It was soft and sweet, only against San’s lips, and he smiled as he kissed back. His eyes fluttered closed, and like this it was even easier to imagine Seonghwa’s handsome face kissing him, his hands leaving San’s face to go to his waist and back and gently lay him down.

_Ding dong._

San’s eyes flew open, and he groaned. Someone was at the door.

<Who is it?> asked Seonghwa, with his hands still at San’s waist.

“I don’t know,” said San with a sigh. He was not in the mood for guests. The doorbell rang again, and he groaned.

<Don’t go,> said Seonghwa, tugging gently at San as he got up. <Stay here with me.>

“I’m coming back, don’t worry,” said San. He almost reached for the hands at his waist before he stopped himself. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle the feel of empty air holding him instead of Seonghwa’s solid hands. “I’ll just go see who it is.”

Seonghwa grumbled but gave in. He let go of San, but left a light peck on his cheek that made him smile.

The living room beyond San’s bedroom was dark too, but slivers of light leaked through the drawn curtains. San made a mental note to get heavier curtains. Seonghwa guided him through the living room and to the front door, just as the doorbell sounded again twice. San looked through the spyhole, and it took him a moment to adjust to the light outside.

It was Wooyoung. He was ringing the bell, looking impatient, while behind him stood Yunho with a big grin on his face.

San backed away from the door until he was sure they wouldn’t be able to hear him through it. “Shit.” 

<Who is it? Someone dangerous?> Seonghwa sounded concerned. <If you let them in I can take care of them.>

“No, they’re my friends,” said San. “Wooyoung and Yunho. They probably came to see me because I haven’t been going to hang out with them nowadays.”

<That’s sweet,> said Seonghwa. <I’m glad you have good friends.>

“Me too,” said San. And he loved them, really, but now was not the time. “But I can’t make them go away right now.”

<It’s okay,> said Seonghwa. <I can survive a couple of hours without your company, angel.>

“But I wanted to spend time with you,” whined San.

<Another night,> said Seonghwa, with a soft chuckle. He stroked San’s hair as the doorbell rang for the thousandth time and said, <Go open the door, love, before they break it down.>

San gave in. He unlocked the front door and opened it, letting light spill in from the foyer outside. Seonghwa’s presence dissolved away.

“Where the hell were you?” demanded Wooyoung as they entered. “I rang the bell, like, a million times.”

“I was in bed,” said San. Technically not a lie.

“Yeah, we can see that,” said Yunho, motioning to San’s messy hair and squinting eyes. “Thanks for opening the door for us.”

“I had to, you were ringing the bell like demons,” said San. “My neighbors would’ve complained.”

“You deserve it for leaving us out there,” said Wooyoung. “Now come on, it’s movie night.”

“You can’t say movie night without telling me first,” whined San.

“What, so you can cancel on us again? No thanks,” said Yunho. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I brought snacks.”

“ _We_ brought snacks,” said Wooyoung.

“ _I_ paid for them so _I_ brought them,” said Yunho pointedly. “ _You_ were too busy eating free samples to take out your wallet.”

“They had these little apple candy squares,” said Wooyoung, like that explained everything, and San laughed. 

It was nice having them around. His friends lit up the apartment in a way none of the electric lights in the house were able to accomplish. They noticed it too.

“Your place is still kinda creepy,” said Wooyoung, while Yunho went to get bowls from the kitchen. 

“It’s just a little dark,” said San. 

“Yeah, creepy,” said Wooyoung.

“I dunno, I like it,” said San, smiling.

“Well, as long as you like it, I guess,” said Wooyoung with a shrug. He grinned. “But my place is still better.”

“That’s because Yeosang has money, you freeloading leech,” said San, whacking at him with a sleeve. 

“I pay half the rent,” lied Wooyoung indignantly. He caught San’s look and quickly added, “Okay, maybe not _half_ …”

“Dude, your kitchen’s so nice,” said Yunho as he walked out of it, arms laden with snacks and bowls. “How is it so clean? I swear it’s cleaner than before you moved in.”

San felt a rush of undeserved pride. That was Seonghwa’s handiwork, though Yunho didn’t know it. “Come on, let’s find something to watch,” he said.

They went to San’s bedroom to set up. It felt surreal to San, to watch Wooyoung on his bed lay out blankets, to turn and see Yunho standing beside him with a smile. His bedroom was Seonghwa’s place. Seeing his friends here, with the lights all on… it didn’t fit.

Wooyoung was allowed to pick the movie, because he was a scaredy cat and didn’t trust the others to pick something that wouldn’t scare him half to death. San sat between him and Yunho, warm and comfortable.

“Hey,” said Yunho under his breath. “I wanted to ask you something.”

San glanced at Wooyoung, who was so absorbed in the laptop screen he didn’t hear, and then turned back to Yunho. This was meant to be a two-person conversation. “Yeah?” 

“Sorry if this is a little weird,” said Yunho. “You remember my friend Jisung? He’s looking for a date. Should I give you his number?”

San blinked. “What?”

“We did that vectors class together last semester,” said Yunho. “He was at my dance performance, remember? He’s really cool and fun and pretty good-looking too. What do you say?”

“What?” said San again. “I mean—why are you asking me?”

“I thought you’d be a good match,” said Yunho.

“Okay, but why did you think of me?” asked San.

Yunho shifted, a little awkward. “I dunno,” he said. “I always kinda got the feeling you were… lonely?”

“Lonely,” repeated San. The word felt hollow in his chest.

“Yeah,” said Yunho. “Like, y’know, you needed someone with you, more than just your friends. And especially since you haven’t been going out with us I thought…” He frowned. “Sorry.”

San swallowed. “It’s okay,” he said. It wasn’t really, it didn’t feel okay, but Yunho looked so awkward San had to say something. “But I’m not interested.”

“Okay,” said Yunho. He still looked apologetic. “I’m sorry if I was thoughtless, I really thought…”

“I know,” said San. “But you don’t have to worry about me.” He put on a bright smile. 

It was enough to assuage Yunho, and he smiled back. He put his arm around San, letting him lean into him.

It took Wooyoung a couple of more minutes and Yunho and San’s impatient poking to pick a movie. The three of them settled in as it started.

It was a good pick, but San was distracted. Lonely? Had he really been that lonely? It was true he’d envied couples before, and he was always into affection and attention, but had it been that bad?

San didn’t remember. Since Seonghwa had entered his life he’d been caught up in him, so much so that he didn’t remember his lonely nights alone, when all his friends were with their partners or with other friends they loved more. It seemed impossible right then, tucked snugly between Yunho and Wooyoung’s solid warmth, but San had always been acutely aware that he wasn’t anyone’s closest friend. That if they had to, Yunho would choose Mingi and Wooyoung would be with Yeosang, and that was how it had been and always would be. 

There was something uniquely painful about knowing you were nobody’s favorite person. The feeling had clung to San his entire life, just another part of his existence, as natural as the blood and bones in his body. He had become so familiar with it it was almost strange that he didn’t feel it anymore. All his lonely nights felt like distant memories, even though they were real and recent, because he knew they would never come back. 

San had never felt like anyone’s first priority. Not until he met Seonghwa. 

If he had been lonely before, San wasn’t anymore.

They devoured all the snacks, but after the first movie ended Yunho complained he was hungry, and he needed what he called ‘real food’.

“Snacks don’t count as food,” he said seriously, while San doubled over laughing.

“Okay, let’s make dinner,” said Wooyoung. “Then after we eat we can go home.”

“It’ll be pretty late by then,” said San. “You can just sleep over here.”

The offer came out naturally. He knew Yunho would have to sneak back into his dorm or risk getting chewed out by the RA, and Wooyoung’s apartment was far from his. But it meant San wouldn’t be able to be with Seonghwa for the rest of the night.

“Okay, cool,” said Yunho, grinning bright. 

“Lemme call Yeosang and tell him I’m not coming home,” said Wooyoung, phone already in hand. 

Yunho went to the kitchen to get started on dinner. San took the opportunity and slipped into his bathroom, leaving the lights off.

It was pitch black inside. He leaned against the wall, unafraid, and softly whispered, “Seonghwa.”

The air swirled against San’s skin, growing thick with Seonghwa’s presence. In a few seconds he was strong enough to hang heavy around him, almost solid, and a light touch came to rest on his cheek.

<San.>

“I’m sorry,” murmured San. He knew Seonghwa would be able to hear him no matter how quietly he spoke. “I invited them to stay over.”

<Why would you apologize?> asked Seonghwa. <They’re your friends.>

“But I was supposed to spend time with you.”

A soft chuckle touched San’s mind. <You are not _supposed_ to do anything,> said Seonghwa. <It’s your time, you can do whatever you want with it. But I’m blessed you want to spend it with me.>

Warmth spread in San’s chest. He reached out, and the touch left his cheek to run up his hands. 

<So long as you don’t leave me, I’ll be there, waiting for you,> said Seonghwa. <Be with your friends, love. But remember you have me.>

San nodded. How could he ever forget?

<And you can make it up to me later,> said Seonghwa, a teasing lilt to his words.

“Yeah?” said San, laughing softly. “With what? You never want anything.”

<I’ll think of something.>

It was the easiest thing in the world, to imagine the handsome Park Seonghwa in front of him, smiling cheekily and with his hands on San’s arms. San leaned forward, wanting a kiss, and Seonghwa obliged with a soft, loving press against his lips.

He opened the bathroom door and stood in the doorway, blinking to get used to the bedroom lights. It took him a moment to realize Wooyoung was there, standing in front of his open bedside drawer with a magazine page in his hands.

San’s gut twisted. _Oh no._

He darted to Wooyoung’s side and nearly snatched the page from him before Wooyoung realized and jerked it out of his reach.

“Give me that,” said San, still struggling. “That’s not yours.”

“Dude, are you kidding me?” said Wooyoung with his piercing laugh. “You have a crush on Park Seonghwa?”

“No I don’t,” said San, while embarrassment burst red hot in his belly. 

“You were keeping his picture in your drawer like a lovesick idol fan,” said Wooyoung, laughing hard. “Do you make kissy faces at it before you go to sleep? Like, _oh, Seonghwa sunbae, yes, I_ will _marry you_ —”

“Shut up!” San was no longer interested in getting the magazine page back, now he just wanted to throttle Wooyoung. 

“Hold up,” screeched Wooyoung, making a face. “Is this, like, what you jerk off to? Because if it is that is super sad—”

San got Wooyoung in a headlock and applied pressure, enough to get him to stop talking and start choking.

“Whoa, what the hell is going on?” Yunho popped into the room. “I heard yelling.”

“Look at this,” wheezed Wooyoung, holding out the magazine page. 

San made a grab for it, but Yunho was fast and his limbs were long, and he got to it first.

“‘A club bringing much-needed calm to students’ lives’,” he read aloud. He looked up and frowned. “There’s no article, it’s just the heading.”

“The article’s not important,” said Wooyoung, laughing. “Look, San saved this dude’s picture and was keeping it in his bedside table.”

Yunho gaped as San snatched the page from him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” said Wooyoung with his uniquely annoying laugh. “I only found it ’cause I was looking for a charger.”

“You like this guy?” Yunho asked San.

“No,” he snapped, but he could feel his face and ears burning red. He folded up Seonghwa’s picture and put it away. He knew he should just toss it out—he didn’t need it, he’d already memorized every curve and line of that face—but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It felt wrong.

“You can thirst over any guy you want, but not Park Seonghwa,” said Wooyoung, making a face. “He used to flirt with Yeosang like crazy, y’know? Yeosang had to tell him straight he wasn’t interested.”

San’s heart stuttered in his chest. “You know him?”

“Kinda,” said Wooyoung with a shrug. “He and Yeosang had a class together.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” said San. 

“I think I mentioned him before,” said Wooyoung. “Like, ages ago. This all went down in the second semester. I didn’t know you were so interested.”

“I’m not,” said San quickly. 

Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “Sure. You were just keeping that picture for, like, scientific research.”

“Shut up,” said San, aiming a kick at him, but it was halfhearted.

“Come on, man, leave off him,” said Yunho, grinning. “It’s not his fault he’s madly in love with a dude who likes _gardening_.”

San glared at both of them. “Anyone who says one more word about this is getting kicked out!”

That was enough to get them to let go of the topic. They made dinner and ate together at San’s tiny dining table, laughing and talking about nothing important. Afterwards they sat down for another movie, San’s choice this time, and he picked a horror movie.

“No way,” said Yunho, while Wooyoung screeched and complained. “Wooyoung wouldn’t let go of me last time. I had to scrape him off so I could go to the bathroom.”

“We’ll squeeze him between us,” said San. “He can attach himself to me.”

That’s what they did. San left only his bedside lamp on as they put the movie on, and settled in next to Wooyoung.

It was probably scary, judging by Wooyoung’s reactions, but San found he wasn’t scared at all. It was hard to imagine himself in the main character’s place, terrified walking down a dark hallway, when he knew if there was anything dangerous there Seonghwa would protect him.

San glanced at the folded magazine page, now sitting on his bedside table. He _wasn’t_ interested. That Park Seonghwa wasn’t _his_ Seonghwa. Yes, he was handsome, but he wasn’t the Seonghwa San knew and adored. San didn’t want to meet him. He didn’t like him.

But the thought of him flirting with Yeosang was off putting in a way San couldn’t quite describe. He always imagined Seonghwa beside him in the dark, holding his hands, stroking his hair, saying sweet things to him. Now he could also imagine Seonghwa in the light, looking at Yeosang and saying sweet things to _him_. It wasn’t a good feeling.

“You’re being stupid,” muttered San to himself, so low no one else heard. That person wasn’t the Seonghwa he knew, who cared if he liked someone else? 

When the movie ended and Wooyoung had made Yunho deaf in one ear, they got ready for bed. Wooyoung refused to sleep alone, but the bed was too much of a squeeze for three people, so San had to set up a makeshift bed for Yunho. 

“I can just sleep on the couch,” said Yunho, as San handed him a pillow.

“Alone? In that creepy ass living room?” screeched Wooyoung. “No way!”

When San switched off the lamp Wooyoung immediately attached himself to his side. “Can’t we just leave it on?” he asked. “It’s pitch black in here.”

“I can’t sleep with it on,” said San. It was kind of a lie. He could sleep with the light, but he felt more comfortable in the darkness. “It’s fine. The dark won’t hurt you.”

Wooyoung grumbled but didn’t complain anymore. It was only a few minutes before Yunho’s soft snoring reached San’s ears, and soon after Wooyoung’s breathing evened out, and when he rolled away San was certain he’d fallen asleep. 

The room felt empty aside from the three of them, but San knew it wasn’t. He silently moved away from Wooyoung and, very softly, called out, “Seonghwa.”

Wooyoung didn’t stir. But the air grew thick, heavy, filled with the presence of the dark. San closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation that was now so familiar, and when he felt a light caress over his chest he sighed, content. 

<You should sleep, angel,> said Seonghwa. <Aren’t you tired?>

“Not really,” murmured San. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you tonight.”

<I told you, you don’t need to say sorry,> said Seonghwa. <I don’t mind if you’re away from me sometimes, so long as you come back. I know I can’t have you all the time.>

San smiled. “Thank you.” 

<I don’t know why you’re thanking me, but okay,> said Seonghwa, sounding amused. <Did you have fun with your friends? What did you do?>

“Watched movies, ate,” said San. “It was fun. I’m glad they came over.”

<I’m glad you had fun,> said Seonghwa fondly. He carded his fingers through San’s hair, bringing a smile to his face. <Are you sure you’re not tired?>

“I’m sure,” insisted San. He was a little sleepy, but he wasn’t giving up this time with Seonghwa. “Do you wanna hear about what we watched?”

<I always want to hear,> said Seonghwa. <But tomorrow. It’s late and you should sleep.>

He stroked San’s hair again, and a light weight settled on San’s body, like a weighted blanket but without the heat. It was comfortable. San was rolled onto his side and he felt hands on his back and shoulders, massaging him gently.

“Quit trying to get me to fall asleep,” he mumbled, but he already felt like he was melting into the bed.

<Shh. Just close your eyes and relax,> said Seonghwa. He pressed a kiss to San’s lips. <Do you want me to tell you about where I went today?>

San hummed and managed a nod.

Seonghwa told him, voice even and soothing. And as San drifted to sleep with Seonghwa’s voice in his mind, he thought this might’ve been the most content he’d ever been in his life. 


	4. Growing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tall, dark-haired, handsome with strong features. A face San would recognize anywhere.

“… and he literally would not let go! Like the entire time, he was just holding on!”

<I thought you said he could?>

“Well, yeah, but he wouldn’t even let go to let me scratch my neck.”

<Maybe he was just pretending to be scared so he could hold onto you. That’s what I’d do.>

San squawked. “Stop.”

<What? I only told the truth,> protested Seonghwa. He never laughed in San’s mind, not exactly, but San had learned what his laughing voice sounded like. 

“Wooyoung’s not like you,” said San. “He’s my friend.”

<It must be nice to be your friend,> said Seonghwa wistfully. 

“Aww, no, you’re my friend too,” said San, reaching out into the empty air. Seonghwa immediately obliged, rubbing his arms and squeezing his hands.

<Thank you, angel,> he said. <That means a lot.>

He sounded sincere, and it set San’s heart fluttering. “The movie really wasn’t that scary,” he said. “Hongjoong-hyung even fell asleep in the middle. Jongho piled popcorn on his head until he woke up.”

Ever since that night Yunho and Wooyoung had shown up over a week ago, San’s friends had had three more movie nights at his place. He’d even come home from work to find them waiting for him at the front door. They were trying to fill up his nights, San knew. But they didn’t know he wasn’t alone, and he wasn’t lonely. 

<So you weren’t scared at all?> asked Seonghwa, amused.

“No way,” lied San.

<Oh, you’re so brave,> said Seonghwa. <I’m so impressed.>

“Stop that, I really wasn’t scared,” insisted San. 

<Is it fun being scared?> asked Seonghwa. San could imagine him vividly, handsome and dark-haired, sitting right there with a small smirk on his face. <I thought people didn’t like it.>

“Not usually, but horror movies are different,” said San. “You’re not scared of anything?”

<Nothing can harm me, San,> said Seonghwa. <What would I fear?>

“Fear doesn’t always make sense,” said San. “And I dunno, you sounded kinda scared when you thought there was someone dangerous at the door, before I told you it was just Wooyoung and Yunho.” 

<That was concern, not fear,> said Seonghwa, highly offended. San laughed at that. <I was worried. But, alright, that was irrational too, because I could’ve taken care of them if they had intended to hurt you.>

“You mean if I lured them into my dark living room?” San giggled. “Literally the first thing a person would do is turn on the lights.”

A hesitant pause, and then Seonghwa said, <Not exactly.>

“Then how?” asked San.

Another silence settled, this one longer than the last. <San,> said Seonghwa finally. <If you could look inside a person’s body, what do you think you would see?>

“You mean literally?” San grimaced. “Blood and guts and stuff, I guess.”

<No,> said Seonghwa. <All you’d see is black. The inside of the human body is dark.>

San had never thought of that. But it made sense. “So you can get inside everyone’s bodies?” he asked.

<Yes,> said Seonghwa. <And humans are even more fragile from the inside. So don’t ever worry about anyone hurting you, love. I would stop them.>

San sat still, processing this new information. “Have you ever done it?” he asked. 

<Done what?> Seonghwa’s touch was in San’s hair, gentle and loving.

“Hurt someone from the inside.”

The touch vanished. <Yes,> said Seonghwa, soft like a feather in San’s mind. <Please don’t be scared of me.>

“I’m not,” said San. He tilted his head forward and, almost hesitantly, Seonghwa started running his hands through his hair again. “When?”

<A long time ago,> said Seonghwa. <I remember doing so two or three times, and then never again.>

“Tell me,” said San.

<San…>

“Please,” said San. “I just… want to know.” He wanted to know the person he was talking to. The person he’d let into his home and life, into his heart.

There was a beat of hesitation, and then Seonghwa said, <There was a girl.>

San hummed, wrapping his arms around himself. Seonghwa had stopped stroking his hair again. 

<She lived with her parents,> said Seonghwa. <Her father was cruel. He would torture her and her mother. She… she used to pray aloud in her dark room every night, asking the god she believed in to save them. I listened. Every night, for so many nights. I think my presence comforted her, when she could sense me.>

San swallowed, nodded.

<One night her father entered her room and started hitting her,> said Seonghwa. His voice was flat, steady. <I don’t remember why. There probably wasn’t any reason why. It wasn’t dark enough for me to restrain him but I could see everything. It was worse than I’d imagined. He was going to kill her. I could see it, San, he would’ve killed her, if I had done nothing he would’ve killed her—>

“I know, I know,” said San gently. “So you stopped him.”

<I did,> said Seonghwa. <Just one small press, on the inside of his heart. I remember that clearly. He died instantly.>

“And then?” asked San, voice barely above a whisper.

<And then what else?> said Seonghwa, a trace of something unidentifiable in his words. <I didn’t see the girl for some time as her family dealt with the death rites. But one night, she blew out the candles and knelt by her bed in her room, and she thanked her god for saving her.>

San swallowed. “You did it,” he said. “You saved her, and her mother.”

<Thank you,> said Seonghwa, like San had praised him instead of simply speaking the truth. <I try not to get too involved, because humans move in ways I cannot fathom and I don’t know if I would truly make things better, but that time… I couldn’t stop myself.>

His words were a lot like when he’d explained why he’d touched San the first time. The realization made San feel strange. 

<I did it once or twice after that,> said Seonghwa. <And then no more.>

“Why did you stop?” asked San. “You didn’t see anything else that forced you to get involved?”

A brief silence fell, and then Seonghwa said, <I made a mistake.>

“A mistake,” repeated San, words tasting wrong in his mouth. 

<When inside, it’s difficult to know for certain who it is,> said Seonghwa quietly. <It wasn’t dark enough outside for me to make sure I had the right person.> A pause. <I didn’t.>

“Oh, Seonghwa,” said San softly. 

<I’m sorry, San. I’m sorry this is what I am.>

“You don’t have to say sorry, not to me,” said San. He wished he could take Seonghwa in his arms, hold him to his chest and hug him tight. But all he could do was raise his hands, palms up, sigh softly when Seonghwa pressed down into them. “You were trying to do the right thing.”

<I shouldn’t have tried to—>

“You did what you thought you had to do,” said San, firm but gentle. “I don’t blame you. I’m not scared of you.”

For some time Seonghwa didn’t speak. But he moved up San’s arms, a loving caress, until he rested in the center of his chest, touch flat like palms pressed over his heart. San let his eyes rest closed as he leaned his head back against the wall behind him. He felt Seonghwa on his face now too, soft like lips on his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw. 

<San,> he said softly, voice like a breath on San’s skin. <San, my star, my angel. You’re so beautiful. I’m so happy I’m here with you. Thank you so much.>

A smile pulled at San’s lips. He parted them, ever so slightly, and Seonghwa kissed him. Gentle, sweet, adoring. Every touch was sincere.

<I hope you know how much I love you.>

San’s eyes fluttered open. “Seonghwa…”

<No, shh,> said Seonghwa, still as soft as ever. <Don’t say anything. Only let me tell you. I love you.>

He kissed San again, on his lips, sliding into his mouth. And, as asked, San didn’t speak, not even when Seonghwa moved him away from the wall to lay him down on the bed.

<Thank you,> said Seonghwa, hands on San’s body, lips on San’s lips. <For letting me be with you, just like this.>

San closed his eyes and smiled. Seonghwa didn’t need to tell him. It was obvious in his every word, his every touch. San had known from before, and he believed Seonghwa knew too. He didn’t need San to say it aloud.

<I’m tired of talking about myself,> said Seonghwa. <Let’s talk about you. Did your friend bring up any more potential dates?>

San huffed a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re still upset about that.”

<I was never upset,> said Seonghwa, which was such an obvious lie San giggled. <I’m still not. I was just asking.>

“You’re jealous,” teased San, still giggling. 

<Why would I be jealous?> demanded Seonghwa. A pause. <Should I be?>

It was such a ridiculous question San could do nothing but laugh. “I barely even remember meeting the guy,” he said. “And I already told Yunho no.”

<Okay,> said Seonghwa, a tinge of satisfaction in his voice. That was ridiculous too, because San had told him the exact same thing before, and it made San laugh again. <I only asked because he has arms, you know.>

“Arms?” San was still chuckling.

<Yes,> said Seonghwa seriously. <I don’t.>

“Arms are not what I look for in men, Seonghwa, don’t worry,” said San with a laugh. 

<That’s good,> said Seonghwa. <I do what I can but I can’t sprout arms.>

“You don’t need to,” said San. He didn’t need anything more than what Seonghwa had already given him. 

Seonghwa hummed, rich and warm in San’s mind, and then settled on him, a solid weight from his chest down to his toes. Like the handsome senior from the magazine page was lying down on him, curled up into his body heat. It was nice.

<San.>

“Seonghwa?”

<Nothing. I like it when you call me that.>

“What, Seonghwa?” San was confused. “That’s your name.”

A pause, and then, <Yes, I guess it is.>

The weight on San’s body disappeared, and he whined, missing it. But Seonghwa’s touch was on him again, a slow caress underneath his clothes going from his abdomen up to his collarbone. It curled around his chest, moved back down to his hips. San gasped a breath as he felt it roam his skin. 

<Never stop calling me by my name,> said Seonghwa, a soft purr in the corners of San’s mind. <I want to hear you.>

Without warning he tickled San’s sides. San yelped. “Seonghwa!”

<Yes, just like that,> said Seonghwa, pleased, and San laughed. 

“Earth to Choi San, are you there?”

San snapped back to the present, and found Yeosang waving a hand in front of his face. He grabbed it and held it tight. “Yes, I am,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t space out while we’re walking,” said Yeosang. “You’ll trip on something.”

He really meant it, and it made San smile. He nodded.

They were on campus, outside in the golden sunshine of the afternoon. Yeosang had asked him to go with him to some campus event, and San had agreed without hesitation. He didn’t get much time with Yeosang, between his job and dance sessions and programming degree. 

“What were you thinking about?” asked Yeosang.

“My job,” said San. “I’m trying to get them to change my shifts around but I dunno if they’ll agree.” 

“Keep trying, they’ll give in eventually,” said Yeosang. “Why do you wanna change anyway?”

“I’m tired of getting home after it’s already dark,” said San. 

Yeosang hummed. “You don’t come out with us nowadays,” he said. “We have to corner you in your apartment.”

San felt a pang of guilt. Yeosang hadn’t been the first friend to tell him that. He felt bad, but he couldn’t help it. When he missed his friends he could text or call them, so he could always catch up later. When he missed Seonghwa all he could do was wait for nightfall.

He tried to play it off lightly. “That’s so mean,” he whined. “I’m literally with you right now.” 

“I can only ever get you during the day,” said Yeosang.

“You can get me whenever you like,” said San, batting his eyelashes at him, and Yeosang laughed. 

Whatever event Yeosang was interested in was definitely unofficial, without a single sign declaring what it was. A number of open tables were set up under the open sky, dotted with potted plants of different sizes. There were a surprisingly large number of people there. They milled around the tables, some wandering about and doing nothing at all, others gathered in a crowd at one end.

“What is this?” asked San. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing Yeosang was interested in.

“I don’t really know,” said Yeosang with a shrug. “Come on, let’s see what’s going on there.”

He tugged at San to approach the crowd, and San went with him. They were just a few paces from the clump of people when someone shifted, giving San a clear view of the person at the center.

Tall, dark-haired, handsome with strong features. A face San would recognize anywhere. A face he saw clear as glass in his mind every night, in the darkness.

Park Seonghwa.

A wave of nausea hit San. He yanked free of Yeosang’s grip and started backing away.

Yeosang didn’t seem surprised by his reaction. “San, come on,” he said patiently. “You should talk to him at least once.”

“Why? I don’t know him,” said San. His voice came out high and choked. 

Yeosang gave him a long look, and then sighed. “I talked to Wooyoung,” he said.

San’s stomach sank. The day after the mini movie night with him and Yunho, Wooyoung had told all their friends about San’s apparent crush on Park Seonghwa. They’d teased San about it, like he’d expected, and then everyone moved on and forgot about it. Or so he’d thought.

“What did he say?” asked San, defensive. “He told you to—to do this?” 

“No, he tried to convince me not to,” said Yeosang, as calm as ever. “He has a petty grudge; you know how he is. I’m the one who pushed for this.”

“Why?” asked San. His world felt tilted over, knowing Park Seonghwa—the real Park Seonghwa—was standing there just a few steps away. 

“Because I’m worried about you,” said Yeosang. “I don’t know why but you’re pulling away from us. You spend all your time at home alone. We invite you out and you make some excuse and refuse. If you won’t spend time with us, you should spend it with someone. You’re alone all the time.”

“I’m not,” murmured San. He swallowed and said, “And I came out with you today, didn’t I? Before I knew you were tricking me—”

“I am not tricking you,” said Yeosang, calm exterior dropping. “San, please. I think it’d be good for you to try talking to him. He’ll like you, I know he will.”

The words hit San in a different part of the chest. “You… you think?”

“I know,” said Yeosang firmly. He grabbed San by the elbow again, and this time San let him pull him forward.

By then most of the crowd had dispersed. Seonghwa was still there, talking and smiling pleasantly at a few fellow students, when he looked up and caught sight of San and Yeosang.

San’s throat tightened. He could imagine what Seonghwa was seeing as he smiled at them. Yeosang, with his soft golden hair framing his beautiful features, shining in the afternoon sunshine in his stylish wool coat and skinny jeans. 

And, next to him, San. San with his messy brown hair, the ends of it falling into his eyes since he’d forgotten to get it cut the week before. San wearing a purple turtleneck he’d found in the sale bin, out of fashion and too big on his frame. He looked a mess. 

“Sunbaenim, hi,” said Yeosang, only a little awkward. “Do you remember me? We had a course together.”

“Of course,” said Seonghwa with a gracious smile. “Kang Yeosang, right? How could I forget? You were the only reason I attended that 8 a.m class.” 

“Oh, my god,” said Yeosang, hiding a giggle behind both hands. 

Seonghwa smiled, warm and friendly. He was good at that, San realized, as Seonghwa made small talk with Yeosang and caught up. Seonghwa had smiled at all these strangers too, looking genuine to every single one of them. He had to be popular. All these people had probably shown up for him. And here San was, standing in front of him, gut twisting and horribly unprepared.

Seonghwa was stunning in real life. It hadn’t seemed possible, but the picture was nothing compared to reality. His hair was raven black, a little shorter than in the picture, side bangs touching the edge of one perfect eyebrow. His strong features caught the afternoon light, setting shadows over his face. He was tall too, a good height taller than San, and the high waist black skinny jeans he wore accentuated his long, lean legs. San pulled the neck of his turtleneck up to his chin, wishing he could hide behind it. 

Without warning, Seonghwa turned to him. “Hi, are you a friend of Yeosang’s?” he asked, still with that smile like light.

“I—um, yeah,” said San, surprised he was able to get the words out. “I’m Choi San.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Seonghwa. “Park Seonghwa.”

 _I know._ San only nodded.

“San was thinking about joining the club,” said Yeosang. “I remembered you were the president, so I thought you could talk about it.”

San gave Yeosang a look, ready to deny it and make some excuse to leave, but Seonghwa was already saying, “Oh, really? That’s great.”

San forced his attention back to Seonghwa. “I… I heard about it, I thought it sounded nice,” he said. 

“Oh, probably from the campus magazine,” said Seonghwa. “We got a lot of new members from that article.”

Embarrassment flooded San’s body as he thought about that article, about the page he’d kept in his drawer for so long. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. 

“I have no idea why,” continued Seonghwa. “It was super boring. I mean, even I thought so, and half of it was literally my own words.” 

A laugh escaped San’s lips before he could stop it. He covered his mouth, embarrassed, but Seonghwa just smiled wider.

“Did you read the article?” he asked, voice warm but teasing.

San hesitated. He glanced around, and only now realized Yeosang had made himself scarce. It was just him and Seonghwa. “I… not really,” he admitted. 

Seonghwa laughed. His laugh was bright and rich and full, and it ignited warmth in San’s belly.

 _He’s not him, he’s not him, he’s not him._ But no matter how many times San repeated it in his mind, he was still drawn to him. It was Seonghwa, looking at him, smiling at him. San smiled back, naturally, and he could feel the warm glow in his cheeks.

“I just want to say the huge picture was not my idea,” said Seonghwa. “The vice-president is the one who pitched the idea to the magazine team. She said it’d… lure people in.” He grinned, abashed. 

“She was right,” said San, earnestly and without thinking. The smile Seonghwa gave him was worth the brief flash of embarrassment. 

“Yeah?” Seonghwa ran a hand through his midnight black hair. “Maybe you should join. We’ll put you in the next feature article and get even more new members.”

 _He’s flirting with me._ The realization tipped San’s world upside down. Park Seonghwa, the real, gorgeous, club president Park Seonghwa, was flirting with him. He found San attractive. 

“I don’t think so,” said San. He didn’t know what to say, and it was hard to think with the blood rushing to his face. 

“Oh no, I’m sure,” said Seonghwa, a little bit of a smirk in that smile. “I’m the expert, right? You definitely have to join now.”

“I’ll… maybe,” said San, feeling oddly breathless. 

“Great,” said Seonghwa. “Come on, I’ll tell you about this little event we got here.”

It was an impromptu set up, to promote the club after the spike in members. People, mostly fellow students, had donated dying houseplants and the members had nursed them back to health. Anyone was allowed to take a plant as long as they promised to take care of it. 

“You should take one, San-ah,” said Seonghwa. 

His name in Seonghwa’s voice sent a thrill through San. “I don’t know if I’d be able to take care of it,” he said. “My apartment doesn’t get a lot of light.” 

“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Seonghwa. “You live off-campus?”

He asked about San’s living arrangements, his classes, and talked about his own. Seonghwa was one year older than San, and getting a degree in early childhood education. He was nice to talk to. Funny, and attentive, and every time they made eye contact San got butterflies.

In the end Yeosang had to interrupt them, reminding San that he needed to go to work. San awkwardly said goodbye to Seonghwa, not knowing how to end the conversation.

“Would you mind waiting just a moment?” asked Seonghwa. “I need to do something. I’ll be back.” 

San nodded, and Seonghwa smiled before he left. San watched him go.

“Well?” asked Yeosang quietly. “He likes you, doesn’t he? I knew he would.”

“No, I don’t know,” murmured San. “He’s just… being nice.”

“If you say so,” said Yeosang, unconvinced. “I saw the two of you. He was turning on the charm.”

San would’ve denied that—pointlessly, because they both knew it was true—but at that moment Seonghwa returned, carrying a small plant in a clay pot. 

“Take this,” he said, holding it out. “It’s a Chinese evergreen. It’ll grow well even in low light.”

Speechless, San took the plant. It had wide leaves, vibrant green at the edges and white in the center. The pot was clay and painted purple, and fit right in San’s two hands.

“Thank you,” he said.

Seonghwa smiled. “I hope I’ll see you again, Choi San.”

And all San could do was nod as Yeosang led him away. 

It was only as they were reaching the main campus gates did San notice the card tucked by the base of the plant, Seonghwa’s name and number scrawled on it. 

<Love, are you okay?>

San drummed his fingers on his phone. “I’m fine,” he said.

<You seem distracted. Did something happen today?>

Silence fell as San considered his answer. What could he say? 

He was back home in the comfortable darkness of his bedroom, back with Seonghwa. Except, as he’d thought of the entire time he’d been at work with the card on his desk, he wasn’t Seonghwa. Seonghwa was human, the president of the university gardening club. He was tall and handsome and had a smile like the afternoon sunshine. 

And San had his number on a card in a clay pot.

He didn’t know why. He should’ve just thrown it out, he knew, but every time he considered it Seonghwa’s face floated in his mind’s eyes, warm and sunny. And so he’d kept the card, but not in his wallet or bag. It was still with the Chinese evergreen, sitting in the tiny balcony attached to San’s living room. The balcony sat over the road running by the apartment building, where there were illuminated billboards advertising everything from cheap ramen to skincare. It wasn’t dark there.

 _Because he gets jealous,_ San told himself. _It doesn’t mean anything._ But inside, he was unsettled.

<San?>

“Oh, sorry,” said San. He smiled. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

<About what?> asked Seonghwa. He started stroking San’s hair, just the way he liked. 

“Nothing, really,” said San. He swallowed. “Yeosang tried to get me to join a club.”

<Oh? What club?>

“It doesn’t matter,” said San. “I’m not going to.”

<Not interested?> asked Seonghwa. 

“Not… really,” said San. He could feel lingering touches on his neck and shoulders now, and relaxed into them. “He just wanted me to leave the house more, which I think is unfair. I go out a lot.”

A hum. <It’s okay, you know, if you don’t spend every night with me,> said Seonghwa. <I told you, I’m always here for you. You can be with your friends.>

“I’m with my friends all the time,” said San. 

Seonghwa laughed softly in San’s mind. <You’re pouting.>

“So what if I am?” challenged San. “It _is_ unfair.”

<Alright, alright,> said Seonghwa, kissing San on the lips. <If you’re certain, convince your friends.>

“I’m trying,” said San. “I think they just need some time to get used to it, because I always used to be the one inviting them out—”

The ding of his phone cut him off. Light spilled over San’s hands. 

“Sorry, I’ll just see who this is,” he said, knowing his voice would travel through the darkness. 

It was Yeosang. San swallowed the lump that had appeared in his throat. He knew what this would be about. 

> _Did you text seonghwa sunbae?_

San was unsurprised, but he still hated reading it. Yeosang had spotted the card just after San had, and he hadn’t said anything then, but San had known he’d ask him about it eventually. He quickly typed out a reply. 

> _Are u serious??_ _  
> __I talked to him what more do u want_
> 
> _Text him san_
> 
> _Yeosang !_
> 
> _He really likes you and i know you like him too_

San felt a spike of… something as he read the text. Seonghwa liked him. _Real_ Park Seonghwa liked him.

But he could feel the touch of someone on his legs, at his back, and that wasn’t the real Park Seonghwa.

> _I’m not interested_
> 
> _You’re sure?_

The touched settled on San’s lower back, not tugging, not insistent, just reminding him he was there and waiting.

> _I’m sure_
> 
> _Well you should still text him_ _  
> __At least to thank him for the plant_

San hissed a curse under his breath. He didn’t want to do it. If it had been Yunho’s friend Jisung, or anyone else at all, he would’ve just texted and been done with it. But it wasn’t anyone. It was Park Seonghwa, and he might be waiting, right at that very moment, for San to call or text. He might be in his own room, phone in hand just like San right then, thinking about when they’d walked under the afternoon sun together.

> _Fine_

Yeosang’s reply came a second later.

> _Great_ _  
> __You’ll thank me for this later_

San frowned at the message, and locked his screen.

“I have to do something, it’ll only take a second,” he said. He was reminded of Seonghwa’s words before he’d gone to get the plant for him, and it made him even more uneasy.

<What is it? Can I help?> asked Seonghwa.

But it wasn’t Seonghwa, not really. He just had his name. San had to remember that. 

“No, I need to text someone,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

<Okay, I’ll be waiting.>

Soft kisses settled on San’s cheeks and lips, and then he was gently pulled out of bed and led out of the room. The guiding touch was with him as he walked across the living room, until he opened the balcony door. It dissolved into nothing as light hit San’s face.

The plant was exactly how he'd left it, card under the leaves. San had half hoped it would blow away in the wind, but it was still there and San knew he should just text and get it over with. 

He sent a short, impersonal text to the number on the card, sitting cross-legged on the cold tiled floor. It was nothing more than a thank you for the plant, but San wrote and rewrote it a hundred times before he gave up and pressed send. He watched as it showed sent, then received. 

And then San waited for a reply. Which was ridiculous, because he hadn't sent anything interesting and Seonghwa was so nice and popular and busy, he probably didn't even remember the shy, awkward boy in the purple turtleneck—

San's phone lit up in his hand.

> _It's no problem ^^_ _  
> __Have you thought about joining the club?_

San stared at the message. Seonghwa replied. He'd replied to San, and pretty quickly too. San couldn't ignore him.

> _I don't think i will_ _  
> __Sorry_

The reply came seconds later.

> _Oh that's too bad :(_ _  
> __I was really hoping you'd join :((_

The image was vivid, Seonghwa already lying in bed, frowning as he read San’s message. And San tried not lose himself in it, in Seonghwa’s disappointment and the shine of his eyes when he’d looked at him that afternoon, but it was so difficult. Like trying to hold a shadow in his hands.

And so he ended up texting back, telling Seonghwa he just didn’t have the time. Seonghwa replied almost immediately.

> _Aw i understand_ _  
> __If you ever have questions about your new plant friend i’m available ^^_ _  
> __I’d love to get to know you san ah_

San hesitated. He had to reply, but he didn’t know what to say, and every word felt wrong. He had waded into dangerous waters, and the floor was slippery underneath. He didn’t want to drown. 

His phone dinged. Seonghwa had sent another text. 

> _I’m glad i met you today_

_It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him—_

But San texted back, _me too_.

His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the two words. It was the truth. It was the truth but he shouldn’t have said it, not to Seonghwa, not to himself. There were lines and he was blurring them. _This_ Seonghwa wasn’t _that_ Seonghwa and San needed to remember that. 

But this Seonghwa liked him too. This Seonghwa was tall and handsome and friendly, and when he smiled at San it was like sunshine on his skin. 

His phone went off. Seonghwa had texted again. 

> _♡_

San stared at the single heart, heartbeat thudding out a staccato rhythm, and then he locked his phone and returned to the darkness of his living room. He left the card with the name and number on it with the evergreen plant. 


	5. Torn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a game San never wanted to play, but now that he had started he didn’t know how to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Leap day (night)!

San found himself living a double life.

He didn’t mean to. It was unintentional, and yet happened so naturally. Park Seonghwa the club president would text him, sometimes meet him on campus for friendly chats over coffee and cake. During the day San would talk to him, look at his face under the sunshine or the warm café lights, feel that tug in his gut as Seonghwa listened and talked and made him smile.

And at night San would come home to his apartment and the Seonghwa in the darkness waiting for him. He would hold San tight, stroke his hair and listen to him talk about whatever he wanted to talk about, kiss his lips and cheeks and collarbones and anywhere else San wanted. So sweet, so loving, so devoted.

It was tearing San apart.

Seonghwa, the dark entity he had named Seonghwa, remarked San spent a lot more time on his phone than he had before, but he could not see what he was doing and did not ask. Park Seonghwa, the real Seonghwa, flirted with San all the time. San didn’t reciprocate, but he never told him to stop. And so it continued, never going too far, but never abating.

San wondered how long it would be before Seonghwa tired of San and left him. He wondered how long until both of them left him.

It was a game San never wanted to play, but now that he had started he didn’t know how to stop.

The Seonghwa in the dark offered San the purest, most dedicated love he had ever felt in his life. He was affectionate, and sincere, gentle, kind. But he wasn’t real. The more time San spent with the real Seonghwa, the human Seonghwa, the more difficult it became to reconcile the solid touches in the dark with anything human at all. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t anything that existed in San’s life outside his apartment.

He wasn’t Seonghwa. 

But he loved San. And how was San supposed to let that go? How was he supposed to let go of that sincerity, that attention and affection? He wasn’t human but he was sweet and kind and adoring, and he cared so much for San.

But he wasn’t Seonghwa.

Wooyoung had sent a text, asking if San really would start dating Park Seonghwa. Of course, Yeosang had told him all about the situation, and even more too, since he and Seonghwa had become friends. San stared at the illuminated screen, the only patch of light in his dark bedroom, not knowing what to say. Would he? Seonghwa—real, human Seonghwa—liked him. He could date him. He could actually have his handsome senior from the magazine page.

There was a drumming against his lower back, as of fingers, impatient. San had been looking at his lit phone screen for a while now.

“Wooyoung texted,” he said, knowing his voice would be heard. “Give me a minute to text back.”

A pinch at San’s waist, not anywhere near painful, but even more impatient. San sighed, annoyed.

“Just give me a minute,” he said. 

He scrolled back and forth, but didn’t reply. He had no reply. Wooyoung wanted to know if San really was going to date Park Seonghwa and San had no reply.

Something jerked his elbow, knocking the phone out of his grasp. It fell facedown on the bed, light hidden.

“Hey!” said San indignantly. He reached for his phone, but was pushed back, quicker and stronger than he could fight against, and pinned down flat to the bed. 

He couldn’t move. The force on his arms and legs was not a grip and it didn’t hurt, but struggling against it was impossible. It was like trying to push the Earth. 

<You were ignoring me,> said Seonghwa, the darkness Seonghwa, as though that justified his actions.

“I was texting Wooyoung,” said San, struggling futilely. “Let me go, I didn’t reply yet.”

<How long does it take you to reply to one text?> asked Seonghwa. <What were you talking about?>

San’s heart clenched in his chest. “You wouldn’t understand.”

<Alright,> said Seonghwa. <We’re different, so there’s a lot I won’t understand. But please don’t ignore me when we’re together. It hurts.>

Something burned behind San’s eyes. He tilted his head to the side, trying to force it away.

<I told you, you can spend as much time with your friends as you want,> continued Seonghwa. <I know I can’t have you all the time. But when I do have you please don’t act like I’m not here. I want you, here, with me.>

San swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

<I forgive you,> said Seonghwa. <You didn’t know it bothered me so much. Just don’t do it again, please.> He stroked San’s cheek, and kissed his lips.

But when San felt the touch he could no longer imagine that strong, handsome face, those plush lips against his. That face belonged to someone else. 

<Do you love your friends, San?>

The unexpected question caught San off guard. “Yeah, of course,” he said. 

<Good,> said Seonghwa. His touch was gentle against San’s cheek, his lips, his ear. <I’m sorry for not letting you reply.>

The weight left San, but he didn’t move. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll text back later. Come back.”

Seonghwa did, a solid weight now concentrated on San’s chest and abdomen. It was comfortable. But no matter what he did, San couldn’t relax. It didn’t feel like reality, but he couldn’t lose himself in the fantasy either. That little voice in his head, whispering that it wasn’t Seonghwa who was with him, was louder than ever before and it drowned out nearly every other thought.

<Is everything okay, love?> asked Seonghwa. 

“Fine,” said San. “Just have a lot of thoughts in my head right now.”

<Do you need a distraction?> San’s shirt slid up his chest, a gentle caress moving against his skin where it was left bare.

No. San didn’t need a distraction. He needed to tell Seonghwa everything. He needed to tell him he’d met Seonghwa, the real Seonghwa, and that he liked San and it was ruining him. It was ruining the happiness he had with _this_ Seonghwa, all while ahead of him shone the happiness he could have with _that_ Seonghwa.

He needed to tell Seonghwa the truth. But he couldn’t have both of them, and if San told this one he’d lose him forever.

And how could San let go of him?

<Love?>

San swallowed and nodded, and let the darkness drive all other thoughts away, for at least one more night.

The day was overcast, clouds drifting in from the west, masking the light of the sun on her journey to the horizon. A chill sat heavy in the air. San pulled his coat tighter around him.

He was on campus, on his way to the gardening club room. He had been there before, back when Seonghwa had used joining the club as an excuse to meet with him. San had gone along with it.

Seonghwa had texted the night before, asking to meet up for coffee. San had had a solid weight of nothing but darkness on his chest when he’d read it, comforting and loving. He had refused. Seonghwa had insisted on meeting San, even if only for a few minutes, and in the end San had agreed to meet him in front of the club room before he went to work. 

It was a different kind of feeling meeting Seonghwa, this Seonghwa, in the light. The way he smiled, the warmth of his gaze, every little thing seared into San’s brain. Every moment driving out all the fantasies he had imagined in the dark.

Seonghwa was waiting for him in front of the building, tall, handsome, perfect. Another image seared into San’s brain. San swallowed, trying to stow away memories of a touch in the black of his bedroom at night. Seonghwa had no relation to that touch. He had to remember that. 

“Sunbae, hi,” said San, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

“San-ah,” said Seonghwa, smiling. He looked so handsome when he smiled, like the sun breaking free of the clouds. “I told you, you don’t need to call me that.”

San said nothing, only smiled at his feet. Seonghwa had a way of making fireworks burst in his belly. 

“Thanks for coming,” said Seonghwa. “I know you’re busy.”

“No, it’s—I’m here,” said San, daring eye contact again. 

“Yeosang told me you’ve been really busy recently,” said Seonghwa. “I’m glad you two came to the club event. He’s cool to talk to.”

And that was another thing, wasn’t it? Seonghwa, this Seonghwa, was real in a way the other wasn’t. San knew the touch in the dark wasn’t a figment of his imagination, but he wasn’t like club president Park Seonghwa, known by San’s friends and classmates and existing outside the pitch black of his bedroom at night. He was a real man, hands and face and bright eyes. 

“He is,” agreed San. He swallowed, shifted on his feet. “Why did you wanna see me?” 

Seonghwa sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll be straightforward.” 

San’s stomach plummeted. It was happening. Seonghwa had decided he was tired of San and his refusal to read signs, he was done with him—

“Will you go out with me?” asked Seonghwa.

The world froze, a perfect still frame. “What?” San thought he wasn’t hearing right.

“I’m asking you on a date, Choi San,” said Seonghwa, small smile touching his pink lips. “Do you wanna go out with me?”

“You—with me—” San stammered, unable to speak. 

“I really like you,” said Seonghwa. He rubbed the back of his head with a hand. “And it seems like you like me too, so… what do you say? Wanna see where this goes?”

He looked so hopeful, so interested, there in front of San. Real, and handsome, and wanting San. The real Seonghwa wanted San.

_And the other?_

“San?” said Seonghwa.

A voice in his mind, soft, loving. _San, my star, my angel—_

Eyes that caught the light of the sun coming through the clouds, fixed on San, waiting for his answer.

Loving caresses in the dark. _Thank you for letting me be with you, just like this._

“I don’t know.” 

A frown marred Seonghwa’s brow. “What?”

“I don’t know,” said San, and he wanted to just sit down on the pavement and cry. “I’m sorry, I don’t know—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Seonghwa. He took San’s hands in his, encapsulating them in warmth. “It’s my fault, misread your signals—”

“No,” said San.

Seonghwa’s hands tightened around his. “No?”

San looked away. “It’s complicated,” he said. The words sounded pathetic compared to the situation he’d put himself in. 

“It’s okay,” said Seonghwa again, and his voice was so calming, so warm, just like his hands holding San’s. “Take your time and think about it. Just let me know, okay?”

He was so stunning, face calm and gaze fixed on San’s. Park Seonghwa was someone who deserved to be in the light all his life. San nodded.

“Okay,” said Seonghwa, smiling. 

He reached up and brushed a strand of hair off San’s forehead. The touch was gentle, loving. It felt like a ray of sunlight on San’s skin. 

<You’re distracted again.>

San chewed his lower lip. “I’m sorry.”

A touch ruffled his hair. <You don’t need to apologize to me.>

But he did. San needed to apologize to Seonghwa a thousand times over, because he was with him and still thinking of _him_. The club president Seonghwa, the handsome Park Seonghwa that liked him and had asked him on a date just that day. The real Seonghwa.

He needed to apologize because San thought of him, his devoted dark, as the other Seonghwa.

San had to choose. He couldn’t have both, and he knew it. 

“Hey,” he said softly. He leaned his head back, felt Seonghwa stroke his hair. “Can I ask you something?” 

<Anything, love.>

San hesitated, not knowing how to phrase his question. “Do you have any friends?”

<I have you.>

“Aside from me,” said San, as something like guilt twisted his insides. “Someone else you talk to and like spending time around and can—can be with.”

<Oh.> Seonghwa paused. <No.>

“Maybe you should,” said San. “It’s good to have friends.”

<I have you,> repeated Seonghwa.

“But not—not all the time,” said San. He wrapped his arms around himself, and Seonghwa wrapped around him too, holding him tight. “You never had a friend? Before me?”

<No.>

“That must’ve been lonely,” murmured San.

<For the most part, it wasn’t,> said Seonghwa.

“How could you not have been lonely?” San didn’t understand. The thought of spending all that time, without a single person to talk to…

<I didn’t feel lonely because I didn’t feel anything,> said Seonghwa gently. <I look back on those eons and feel nothing. I have memories of those times, but no feelings. I evolved, San. I gained first the ability to think, then to remember, and then to feel.>

“Oh,” said San, a soft breath escaping his lips. “Do you think… if you didn’t have me, someone to talk to, you might go back to that state? No feelings?”

<I think if I didn’t have you I might go crazy,> said Seonghwa, a light chuckle in his words. 

“Don’t say that,” said San, gut churning. “Please don’t say that.”

<Oh, love, I’m sorry,> said Seonghwa, tightening around San in a brief squeeze. A hug. <You don’t need to think about it, because we have each other. You let me stay with you, and I’m so happy you did.>

“You should have someone,” said San, and he could feel something solid in his throat now, painful and threatening to choke him. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

<I told you, I have you,> said Seonghwa, sounding near agitated. <Why are you stuck on this point, San? I won’t be alone. You’re not going anywhere.>

But he was. The realization hit San like a physical force in the center of his chest, even stronger than the embrace around him. There was no indecision in his mind, only concern, regret, guilt. He didn’t want this voice in the dark to be alone. San was worried for this Seonghwa and his loneliness, because he couldn’t be with him anymore.

He had made his choice.

<Your heart is pounding,> said Seonghwa, as a touch settled on San’s chest. <Are you okay, angel?>

San screwed his eyes shut. “Don’t call me that. I’m not.”

<What are you talking about?> A soft chuckle floated in Seonghwa’s voice. He cupped San’s cheeks, left lingering touches on his nose and lips. <You are an angel. Or would you like a new nickname?>

Tears burned hot behind San’s closed eyelids, but he refused to let them fall. He wouldn’t cry, not in front of Seonghwa. Not when he was the one choosing this.

He took a deep breath, drawing oxygen past the pain in his throat. He had to do this. He had to do it now, before he got too scared and ran from it again. “We need to stop,” said San.

<Alright,> said Seonghwa, still peppering San with affection. <Stop what?>

The pain was still there in San’s throat, no matter how many times he swallowed, and it spread down now, into his chest. “This,” he said. “I… I can’t be with you.”

The touch disappeared into empty air. San missed it, but he couldn’t reach out for it, ask for it back. He could never feel it again.

When Seonghwa spoke, it was no more than a whisper in San’s mind. <What?>

“I’m sorry,” said San, and he really, truly was. “I’m so, so sorry.”

<I don’t—is it because of your friends? Are they worried about you?> asked Seonghwa. <Because I told you, it’s okay if you spend time with them, it’s okay as long as you come back to me. Right? San, I understand, I do—>

San remembered Seonghwa once telling him he had no fear, that nothing could harm him. He sounded scared now.

<I’ll wait,> said Seonghwa, and he sounded scared, hurt, a storm of raw emotions San could hear deep inside. <However long you need me to. We’ll—you can go out whenever they want, I’ll wait here for you—>

“Seonghwa, please, stop,” said San. He pressed his palms against his eyes, forcing the tears back. “It’s not… it’s not like that.”

<Then what is it like?> asked Seonghwa. <Tell me, and I’ll do whatever you need me to. Just don’t say you can’t be with me, please.>

“No, I couldn’t do that to you,” said San. _Not to either of you._

<I want to,> said Seonghwa. He sounded heartbreakingly desperate. <If it means you won’t—if it means you’ll stay with me, if it means you’ll be mine, I’ll do whatever you want me to. Anything, San, just don’t—>

“I met someone,” said San.

The silence that followed was like a knife in San’s chest, driving deeper with every passing second. Seonghwa was silent. He wouldn’t speak.

So San did. “I think—I think it would be better if I was with him,” he said, and he hated himself for saying the words. It didn’t matter that they were true. “He makes me happy.”

His words were met with more silence. “I’m sorry,” said San. “I am so sorry, Seonghwa. You’ve been so good to me and I’ve—it’s been amazing being with you, but I can’t do that to you. Or him.”

Still silence. If not for Seonghwa’s presence hanging heavy in the air around him, San might’ve thought he’d left. But he was still there, still with San. He had something he wanted to say. San would wait as long as he needed.

Finally, after an age, Seonghwa spoke. 

<It’s him, isn’t it?>

His voice was so calm, so measured, it confused San more than the words. “What?”

<The man from the magazine page,> said Seonghwa. <The one whose name you gave me. He’s the one you met, isn’t he?>

San’s blood turned to ice in his veins. “You—you knew?”

<How could I not?> said Seonghwa, and there was something like a sneer in his voice. <You kept his picture in your bedside drawer, in the dark. How could I not know, San?>

San stiffened. “You went through my things—”

<I didn’t know it was something you were trying to hide!> Seonghwa’s presence was suddenly unbearably heavy around San, crowding him in. For the first time since that first night, San felt fear. Not that Seonghwa would hurt him—he knew Seonghwa would never hurt him—but at the sheer power he possessed. There was nothing human about it.

The presence drained away, until it was like it had been, almost tangible but beyond touch. <I always knew,> said Seonghwa quietly. <I tried to understand. I knew I wasn’t something your mind could—could grasp. I knew you needed the face to keep in your mind’s eye, I thought it was okay if you needed to put his face to my words, I thought…>

San couldn’t speak. Not to explain himself, not to defend his actions. The words caught in his windpipe and stayed there, refusing to move. 

<But I was nothing but a fool,> said Seonghwa, voice disdainful. Disgusted. <You never cared about me. You only ever cared about him. All I was was a stand-in for him.>

“No,” said San, whatever spell had been holding him broken. “No, that’s not true—”

<Don’t.> The word cut through San’s mind like a blade, laced through with pain. <When you know I can’t lie to you. Don’t.>

San fell silent. Tears burned like acid at the corners of his eyes, and he fought to keep them at bay.

<I hope you’re happy with him,> said Seonghwa. The sneer was back in his voice, but it wasn’t enough to mask it. He meant his words. <I hope you love him enough that you don’t spend every moment with him pretending he was someone else.>

San shook his head. That wasn’t what it was. That had never been what it was. His throat had closed up from the tears he was fighting, and he couldn’t speak, he didn’t dare try in case he started sobbing. It was too late anyway.

When Seonghwa spoke again his voice was quiet. <Thank you,> he said. <For letting me be with you.>

San gasped a shuddering breath. “Seonghwa—”

The lights flicked on. San’s eyes burned at the sudden intensity. He pressed his palms to them, feeling the tears hot and wet against his skin. He rubbed his eyes, again and again and again, until he thought he might be used to the light that still burned through his closed eyelids. 

San opened his eyes and looked around his brightly lit bedroom. The tears didn’t stop. 


	6. Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely giddy at all the reactions on the last chapter. I ended up getting this one out quick because I was so excited to show you all! Thank you for all your support and interest in _Tenebrous_ ♡

Park Seonghwa was not exactly what San had expected. 

He was definitely handsome. His eyes were dark but warm and expressive, set in a beautifully sculpted face. His lips were full and naturally tinted pink, plush, in an attractive line. He’d dyed and cut his hair a few days after their first date, so that it was now a golden blond instead of pitch black, and he looked more like a perfect sunset than ever before. 

He was also charming. Park Seonghwa was good with words, always ready with a flattering compliment, whether to San or any of the students that came up to talk to him. And there were many of those. Park Seonghwa was popular, well-liked by students and faculty alike, so that any time they were on or near campus together San could sense eyes on them, some admiring, some envious. 

Park Seonghwa was handsome, and charming, and popular. In so many ways, he was perfect. 

But he was not what San had expected.

They sat together in a warm and cozy coffee shop a fair distance from the university campus. It was even further from San’s apartment, but it was Seonghwa’s favorite spot and so they came here. San didn’t mind. He didn’t have a favorite spot, and it was worth putting in the extra effort to get there if it made Seonghwa happy. 

Or so San told himself. He couldn’t deny the little bitterness he felt coiled at the base of his gut, the disappointment that Seonghwa hadn’t considered what was convenient for him or, worse, didn’t care.

“I really hope I didn’t do too badly on that exam,” said Seonghwa with a sigh, tapping his finger on the edge of his cup. “The professor already assigned a lot of marks to an assignment we submitted before, and I know I did average in that.”

“I’m sure you did great,” said San. “You studied really hard for it.”

“I did,” agreed Seonghwa. 

The conversation petered off, and San took the initiative. “We have a big project we need to submit in, like, a week,” he said. “I haven’t drawn a single line of it.” He chuckled awkwardly.

“Do you have any ideas about what you want to draw?” asked Seonghwa.

“Not really,” said San. “It’s supposed to be about hidden corners. The theme is really vague so we can interpret any way we want, like if it’s hidden in our mind or…” 

He trailed off as the waitress came to ask if they wanted anything else, and he saw that Seonghwa wasn’t listening anymore. The girl was flirting with him, and he smiled politely and replied like he was expected to. It happened so often San guessed he shouldn’t have been bothered, but he was. Seonghwa spoke with whoever came to talk with him, no matter what he was doing, and San knew it meant Seonghwa was considerate and polite and he should be proud, but sometimes he wished he wouldn’t. He wished he’d refuse, that Seonghwa would look at the person butting in and say no, he was doing something important right then, he was with someone important who deserved his attention and he wanted to give it to him. 

But Seonghwa never did. And so San sat silently, and waited until the girl was done and Seonghwa would pay attention to him again.

The door to the back opened as a waiter came out, and San caught a glimpse of the kitchen. He wondered if there was a walk-in freezer in there. He wondered if it was dark inside—

San stopped that thought before it sunk too deep. He couldn’t think of that. He wouldn’t.

“San?”

He returned to reality to find Seonghwa looking at him. The girl had left.

“Yeah?” San put up a smile.

“You zoned out,” said Seonghwa. He reached across the table to put his hand over San’s. “Are you okay?”

His hand was warm and solid, fingers resting gently on San’s. It was an anchor to reality. “I’m fine,” said San. “Just… thinking, you know? About my project.”

“The theme was hidden corners, right?” asked Seonghwa. “That can mean a lot of things. I’m sure you’ll get a great idea soon.” He smiled.

His smile was warm and golden, like the lamps overhead. San smiled back. 

It was late by the time San returned to his apartment. He unlocked the front door and stepped into a brightly lit living room.

He’d started leaving the lights on every time he left home, no matter if he was supposed to return in the afternoon or even earlier. He didn’t want to get delayed and end up coming home to dark rooms.

He had also replaced all the bulbs with the brightest ones he could find. He bought lamps and lights and stuck them in every corner of his apartment. He lit them all every night.

He never let his apartment get dark. 

Even with all the lights, San found that he hated being home. He went out every night he could, with anyone who would go with him, with his friends, his classmates, his coworkers. With Seonghwa.

But San had to come back sometime. It was his apartment, and it was supposed to be his home. There was a time he’d thought it was.

He pulled off his scarf and coat, hung them up. Winter was fast approaching, and with every passing day the air got colder. The nights stretched farther into the day.

San entered his bedroom. He no longer felt comfortable here, not when he was alone. He wished he’d brought Seonghwa home, but even that thought made his gut clench. 

His bedroom was nowhere near as neat as it used to be. San sat down on the bed, and his gaze fell on the bedside table. A spike of nausea hit him as he remembered the first time he’d opened it after that night, the night after Seonghwa had asked him out. Everything inside the top drawer had been neatly arranged, pens and markers in perfect lines, notepads stacked. San still remembered how the realization had felt in his chest. Of course he’d known, San had let him tidy up everything in his room, how did he think he didn’t know—

San forced the thought out. He had cried many times that night, sitting on the floor of his illuminated bedroom. He wouldn’t cry again from the memories of it.

And that was all he had left of it. Of _him_. San had nothing else to remind him of _him_ , only memories of a voice in his mind, a touch in the dark. As far as anyone knew, _he_ didn’t exist. _He_ had never existed. 

But _he_ was real, and San would never forget that.

He refused to cry. He had Seonghwa, and there was no reason to cry. 

But San rubbed his palms against his eyes, hard, until he was certain. Then, slowly, he showered and changed and ate, and went to bed, alone.

He slept with the lights on.

All of San’s friends liked Seonghwa. They had heard of him from San and Yeosang, but it was more than two weeks before he got to meet all of them at once, coming to pick San up after they’d hung out together.

Seonghwa was friendly and warm and charmed them all. Even Hongjoong, who had zero interest in relationships and barely invested attention in anything outside his music and his friends, said Seonghwa was cool. “You got a good one, San,” he said, while Seonghwa was busy talking to Jongho about soccer. 

“Thanks,” said San.

“I’m glad,” said Hongjoong. He squeezed San’s shoulder, which was out of the ordinary for him. Hongjoong initiated contact when he said something he really meant. “You deserve someone good, and you should be happy.”

San smiled at Hongjoong, and pulled him into a brief hug. Hongjoong didn’t look like he minded, smiling back and letting him hug as tight as he wanted. 

And Hongjoong was right, wasn’t he? Seonghwa was great. He was handsome and charming and popular. San had a great boyfriend, and close friends he loved and who loved him. He should be happy.

He should be happy.

“Yeosang-ah, you look great,” said Seonghwa. “Long hair suits you.”

Yeosang smiled, so pretty. “Thank you, sunbae. I see you’re trying to copy my hair color.”

Seonghwa laughed at that, but Wooyoung didn’t find it too funny. He pointedly put himself between Seonghwa and Yeosang and squinted up at him. “You’re not as handsome as everyone says, you know,” he sniffed. “They talk about you like you were some god. You’re just a little above average.”

“And you’re not as short as everyone says,” said Seonghwa, grinning. “Just a little below average.”

Wooyoung sputtered, offended, and might have exploded if Yeosang didn’t wrap an arm around him and gently tug him back. San laughed, and so did the others. 

He and Seonghwa were supposed to go on a date, but ended up spending the rest of the afternoon with his friends. Seonghwa meshed well with them, and San found he liked being around him when his friends were around. Maybe more than he did when it was just the two of them.

By the time Seonghwa got up to drop San home he’d become one of the group. Hongjoong had opened up, Mingi had laughed at his jokes until he’d almost pushed Jongho off his chair, and even Wooyoung had warmed up to him, bickering good-naturedly. Yunho stammered out a few words when Seonghwa said goodbye, and when Seonghwa smiled at him his ears went scarlet and he hurriedly stared at empty air. 

San wondered if he should feel jealous, but he didn’t. He didn’t feel jealous, or proud or upset or smug. He didn’t feel anything at all. It was just one aspect of dating Seonghwa. So many people were attracted to him, it didn’t matter Yunho was one of them. 

“I think your friend Yunho has a little crush on me,” said Seonghwa with a soft chuckle, in the taxi ride back to San’s.

“I think so,” said San. 

He could feel Seonghwa’s eyes on him, waiting for a reaction, maybe jealousy or possessiveness. But San had none to give. He found that he did feel something, but it wasn’t what Seonghwa wanted to hear.

“Do you like it?” asked San. 

“Like what? You mean Yunho?” Seonghwa grinned. “I have you, San.”

“No, do you like that he likes you?” asked San, and the words came out sharper than he intended. 

The grin disappeared, replaced by a frown. “What?”

_Do you like that Yunho has a crush on you? Do you like that people come to talk to you when we’re on dates? Do you like letting them flirt with you, while I sit there and do nothing? Do you even remember I exist then? Do you?_

San swallowed. “Nothing,” he muttered, turning away.

They sat like that awhile in the backseat of the cab, and then San felt Seonghwa’s arms go around him. “I’m sorry,” murmured Seonghwa. 

Tears came to San’s eyes, and he hated it. It happened so often now. “You don’t need to say sorry,” he said. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” said Seonghwa. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said San, and when he said it he almost felt like it was.

Seonghwa pressed his face to San’s hair, holding him close. San closed his eyes and relaxed into his warmth. 

When San was alone, he thought of _him_.

He never meant to. He would sit, trying to eat the dinner he’d thrown together, and something would remind him of _him_ , the way he’d cook for San even though it must not have been easy for him. San would sketch, desperately trying to come up with an idea for his project, but all he could think of was _him_. The amazing places he went when San was busy during the day, how he would tell San all about them, but still insist on listening to what San had to say. Like San’s boring days were precious. Like he was important. 

_I’m sorry I can’t do much for you_ , he had said. But _he_ had. He had done so much. He had made San feel like the most precious, most beloved person in the world, deserving of all the affection he had given him. He had made San feel beautiful. 

San stared at his blank sketchbook, at all the white. He wondered where _he_ was now. Did he still go to all those wonderful places? Or did he linger in the corners of San’s wardrobe, his bedside table, hoping to see him again?

San hadn’t been around _him_ since that night. He hadn’t given him the chance, always keeping his apartment as brightly lit as he could, avoiding dark places. He was especially careful when he was with Seonghwa. He didn’t want _him_ to see the two of them together. San had hurt him enough.

He wondered if _he_ even wanted to see him. He had been so hurt that last night they had spoken, and he had been the one who’d turned on the lights. He’d wanted to go. He didn’t want to be around San anymore. Maybe San didn’t need to live his life in the light, under the glare that disoriented him and hurt his eyes like needles pricking him. _He_ wouldn’t be there in the dark waiting for him. 

San had lost him forever. 

Did he hate San now? He would be right to. San deserved his hatred, his contempt. He’d never deserved his love.

The paper was charcoal gray under the tip of San’s pencil, faint lines criss-crossing across the page from his absentminded movements. He stared at the color, and suddenly he was filled with an intense rage. He ripped off the page and crumpled it up, letting it fall to the floor beside him. 

A new, pristine white page stared San in the face. He didn’t know what to put on it. 

_Hidden corners_ , his professor had said, mysterious smile on her face. _Search your mind, and you will find corners there, those little places where you hide your truths._

Truth? What was San’s truth?

The truth was he missed _him_. He missed the way _he_ made him feel, the way he laughed in his mind, wrapped him in his embrace without warmth.

The truth was San was not happy. Not like how he’d been when he had had _him_. And it only added to the disquiet he had sitting inside him nearly every waking moment. He had Seonghwa, he had hurt _him_ , and still San could not be happy. 

The truth was he didn’t know what he had to do to be happy. 

San stared at the blank page, wishing it would give him answers.

They went out often, to restaurants and exhibits and parks. San wouldn’t go to the movies, refusing to sit in the dark cinema hall, and Seonghwa never tried to push him. 

One night they went out, to drink and dance and feel each other. They ended up going to San’s apartment after, staggering through the front door a mess of frantic kisses and grasping hands. San led Seonghwa to his bedroom, loving the way his hands felt red hot against his waist, the feel of his mouth at his neck. He turned around to kiss him as soon as they were through the doorway, drawing his tongue in his mouth, drawing him towards the bed, feeling blindly for the buttons of his shirt.

The lights switched off. 

San broke the kiss immediately, shoving Seonghwa aside to reach for the switch. He drew in a long, shuddering breath as soon as the light filled the room again.

Seonghwa stared at him, hair messy from San’s tugging fingers, handsome face confused. His breathing was heavy from the kissing. San wouldn’t look at him as he tried to catch his breath. He didn’t want to see the look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” said San, when he could speak. His chest was still heaving. “I don’t—I don’t like when the lights are off.”

He knew he looked like a freak, or a stupid child. What kind of grown adult was afraid of the dark? But San wasn’t afraid, not like a child would be. 

He knew what was in the dark. He didn’t want those eyes on him. Not when he was with Seonghwa.

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Seonghwa. He took San in his arms and held him close. “It’s okay. We don’t have to turn the lights off. We don’t have to do anything. It’s okay.”

He ran a hand through San’s hair, just the way San liked. San closed his eyes, trying to get lost in Seonghwa’s warmth. His breathing steadied.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” asked Seonghwa.

San shook his head. He pulled away just enough to look at Seonghwa, slide a hand into his hair. “Can we get back to what we were doing? Before all that?”

Seonghwa blinked at San and his small smile, and then grinned and bent down to kiss him again. And San threw himself into the kiss, into Seonghwa’s warmth and touch. He didn’t want to think of anything outside him. He didn’t want to think of anything at all. 

“The lights don’t bother you?” asked San as he lay back on his sheets.

“No, baby, I like that I can see you,” said Seonghwa, looking down at San as he hovered above him on his elbows. “You’re beautiful.”

San screwed his eyes shut, wishing he could forget the sound of those words in another voice. He pulled Seonghwa to him for another kiss. With enough of them, maybe he would forget. 

He walked home with Seonghwa under the slowly setting sun. The shadows grew long around them, melding together, not yet strong enough to be true darkness. San avoided them however he could, keeping under the streetlamps. 

Seonghwa was talking. His exam had gone well, and he was happy. He’d taken San out to celebrate, and they’d had a late lunch and spent a couple of hours together before Seonghwa decided to walk San home.

“I’m so glad I don’t have to stress about this course anymore,” said Seonghwa. “There’ll probably be a quiz later but I’ve done well enough. It’s fine if I don’t do too great on it.” He laughed.

He had such a nice laugh, golden and melodious. San smiled. “You know you’ll probably do good on that too,” he said.

“Well, I wouldn’t be against it,” said Seonghwa with a grin. 

They walked at a steady pace, while Seonghwa told San about something that had come up at the club, and how the vice president had handled it because he’d been busy with his exam. San listened. He did a lot of that when he was with Seonghwa. 

He’d noticed that most of their conversations revolved around Seonghwa and his life, and what he did. Neither of them did it intentionally. Seonghwa had a busier, more interesting life than San, so he had more to say. It was an unspoken agreement. San didn’t think Seonghwa even noticed.

When they’d first started going out, Seonghwa had always asked about San’s day. And San had happily answered, until he’d realized Seonghwa wasn’t listening. He nodded, and he probably processed the words too, but he had no interest in San’s daily life. He asked because it was the expected thing to do. 

So the next couple of times he asked, San brushed it off saying he had nothing interesting to say. And after that Seonghwa didn’t ask again, and San was both grateful and disappointed.

He was grateful because he hated it. When San talked it felt like Seonghwa wasn’t really listening, just waiting for his turn to be over so that he could talk again, and San hated that feeling. He was glad to be rid of it however he could. But the disappointment lingered. The thought that it bothered him and Seonghwa didn’t care, or didn’t notice, or didn’t care enough to notice, kept the disappointment sitting heavy in his bones. 

In a few minutes they arrived at San’s apartment building. It was a tall, ugly building, one face open to the busy street lined with billboards, the others caged in by other buildings just as tall and ugly. San remembered when he’d first moved in, how excited he’d been about living alone and like a proper adult. It felt like a lifetime ago. 

They stood in front of the entrance, and Seonghwa wrapped his arms around San’s waist. “Thanks for coming to see me so suddenly,” he said. 

“It’s nothing,” said San. “I only had one class in the morning, and that was just to submit my project.”

“Oh, that was today?” asked Seonghwa, surprised. “You should’ve told me. What did you draw?”

“I threw something together a couple of nights ago,” said San, avoiding eye contact. “It sucked. I’m gonna ask the professor if I can submit another version later.”

“I’m sure they’ll let you,” said Seonghwa. He squeezed San’s waist. “You’ve been doing pretty good in this course apart from this, right? Don’t worry too much about it.”

San buried his face in Seonghwa’s chest. “Thanks,” he mumbled. 

Seonghwa ruffled San’s hair. “Try not to stress over it, baby,” he said. “You’ll do great.”

San said nothing, only moved in closer, as close as he could. Guilt and self-contempt sat in his gut like so much poison. Seonghwa was so sweet and wonderful. How could San still be so greedy? How could he still want more? 

“Do you want me to come up?” asked Seonghwa. “We could watch a movie or something together, get your mind off the project.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” said San. He didn’t want to be alone, and it felt good being around Seonghwa right then. 

They went up the stairs and into San’s apartment. Seonghwa noticed all the switched on lights but didn’t comment or ask, and San was grateful. He showered and changed, and let Seonghwa shower and borrow a comfortable set of his clothes. San giggled when he walked into the living room in sweatpants that ended above his ankles, toweling his wet hair. 

“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me for being tall,” grumbled Seonghwa, and San laughed. 

The couch was small and stiff, so they got in bed and watched a movie on San’s laptop, like he did when Wooyoung and the others came over. Seonghwa picked the movie, an old romantic comedy San had watched before but didn’t mind watching again. It was nice, and comfortable. San curled into Seonghwa’s warmth, enjoying the way his chest rose and fell under his hand, the steady rhythm enough to ease the bitter poison that had brewed inside him too long. Seonghwa made the right comments at the right times, and San laughed at his jokes more often than he did at the movie itself.

After the end credits rolled San suggested they make dinner together. Seonghwa laughed and said, “Okay, but I have to warn you, I’m a terrible cook.”

“It’s fine,” insisted San. “That’s what online recipes are for.”

He took out pots and pans while Seonghwa searched up something within their amateur capabilities. In the end he found a stew that was supposed to be simple, and would take long enough for them to eat after the snacks they’d had with the movie. 

San chopped vegetables with a smile on his face. He was having fun. This felt right, and familiar, and he loved it. 

Seonghwa suddenly cursed from where he was putting the spices into a bowl. “San, I messed up,” he said. He was wringing his hands, bouncing on his heels. 

“Messed up bad?” San put aside a half-diced tomato to inspect the damage. 

“Pretty bad,” said Seonghwa. “The recipe said to put in two teaspoons of salt now but I, um, might’ve accidentally put in two tablespoons?” He offered a sheepish smile. 

San squawked. “That’s more than pretty bad, Seonghwa,” he said, eyes wide at the pile of white in the bowl. He grabbed a teaspoon and tried to scoop some off the top. “We’re going to die trying to eat this.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?” asked Seonghwa. “I mean, teaspoon, tablespoon, they’re not too far off.”

“They are way far off,” said San, laughing as he worked on getting the salt out. “I thought you said you were good at measuring things!” 

“What? I never said that.”

San froze. He looked up and found Seonghwa looking at him, puzzled smile on his face.

“Sorry,” he said. His heart was hammering in his chest. “Sorry, I—I got mixed up. I think I—it’s from a drama or something.”

“Oh,” said Seonghwa. The confused expression cleared up in a second, and he laughed. “I wondered if somehow I’d accidentally lied to you. I can’t cook at all.”

“Yeah, I know,” said San, lowering his gaze once more. 

But he couldn’t focus anymore. He could barely see what was in front of him. The air that had been comfortable and familiar suddenly felt wrong. Disjointed, a puzzle put together all wrong, edges jagged and centre scattered with holes. Everything was wrong.

Seonghwa hadn’t said that. _He_ had. 

Tears attacked San, burning behind his eyes. He fought to hold them back, but they were so close and he hated it, hated how it seemed like he was always one second away from crying, how he could go from smiling and laughing to this. The hand holding the spoon started to shake. San quickly put the spoon down and gripped the edge of the counter.

“Hey, it’s fine,” said Seonghwa, and San could hear the grin in his voice. “It’s just the beginning, right? We can start over, or just relax and order takeout. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t okay. San swallowed, forcing the painful lump in his throat down enough to speak. “Sorry, I need to check on something in my room,” he said, and he was amazed at how steady his voice came out. “Can you—can you see if we can save this? It’s—if we can’t we can start over.” 

“I’ll try,” said Seonghwa, taking the bowl from San. 

“Thank you,” said San.

He left the kitchen, went back to his bedroom. As usual all the lights were on, and they made San’s eyes sting even more. He rubbed them with his hands, wishing he could physically force the tears away. But no matter what he did they stayed, burning him, refusing to fall and refusing to leave.

Why did he always think of _him_? Why did San remember him? When he was happy, when he was sad, when he felt cherished or neglected, all he remembered was _him_. The times they had spent together, the way he’d made San smile and laugh and sigh and shiver. No matter what he did, San’s mind always went back to _him_ , back to the dark.

He told himself he’d done the right thing. It had gotten dangerous, the way San had blurred the lines that separated the real Seonghwa and the voice in the dark that had used his name. He’d started associating _him_ with Seonghwa, and when Seonghwa, the real Seonghwa, had appeared, San knew he couldn’t have them both in his life. 

He’d made the right decision, choosing Seonghwa. San liked Seonghwa. Seonghwa was not only handsome and solid and warm, he was attentive, and gentle, and considerate and loving. He was everything San could have ever wanted, and more.

But… was he?

Was Seonghwa all those things? Was he attentive, and gentle, and considerate and loving? Or had that only ever been _him_? 

Park Seonghwa was not exactly what San had expected. Was it because San had expected _him_?

“No,” murmured San aloud. “No, that’s not true. It’s not.”

He leaned against the wall behind, letting it take his weight. He was shaking, and cold, and he wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. He needed to ground himself. He needed to hold onto reality.

San liked Seonghwa. He liked the real Park Seonghwa. No, he hadn’t been exactly like San’s expectations, but that didn’t matter. Seonghwa was kind. Seonghwa was fun, and lovely, and his kisses were sweet and his hands were warm, and he made San smile and laugh and sigh and shiver. 

He needed to redraw the lines. San had called _him_ by the same name, but they were not the same person. _He_ wasn’t Seonghwa. Seonghwa wasn’t _him_. 

Seonghwa wasn’t _him_.

Another wave of… _something_ hit San’s chest, nearly knocking him off his feet. It was a surge of so many emotions he couldn’t distinguish them all. Hurt, and emptiness, guilt, disgust, contempt. Regret. Loneliness.

San screwed his eyes shut. It was done. It was over. He had Seonghwa, and he would be happy with him. He would never see _him_ again and he needed to accept that. He would accept it.

He would be happy.

He took a minute, just to make sure the tears really had gone. Then San left his bedroom and returned to Seonghwa.

“Good news,” said Seonghwa, smile on his face. “I tried again and I was able to get the measurements right this time.”

“That’s great,” said San, and he smiled, but he felt so drained.

Seonghwa frowned. “Is everything okay, baby?” 

San walked up to him and slid his hands into his hair. Underneath his fingers Seonghwa was warm, and solid. Real. San leaned up to kiss him as deep as he could, feel the soft warmth of his lips against his, taste every corner of his mouth and tongue until it was imprinted in his brain. After they finally parted Seonghwa looked down at him, dazed. 

“Everything’s perfect,” said San, and he said it for both of them. 


	7. Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lie. That’s all he did nowadays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to our brightest star｡･:*:･ﾟ★

“Hey.”

San started, returning to the present. “Yeah?”

Jongho gave him a careful look, and then said, “Nothing.”

He had something to say, San could see it in his eyes, see the way the words fell on his lips, but he didn’t speak. That was fine. San didn’t want to hear them.

They were at Jongho’s new apartment. He’d moved out of his house a few weeks ago and they were having a small housewarming party.

Seonghwa got along well with everyone, not only San’s friends but Jongho’s too. He sat at the other end of the room, talking animatedly with Mingi about some drama they were both watching. He looked so happy, so at ease. He was in his element. 

San could only watch, a deep pull in his chest, tugging his heart towards his gut. He and Seonghwa had been dating for weeks now, months. They’d fallen into a rhythm. It was long enough for San to know him, the real Park Seonghwa, the Seonghwa beyond the fantasies he’d built looking at that magazine page.

Yunho sat on Mingi’s other side, half in their conversation. He would perk up when Seonghwa talked, but then pull away, and he kept his eyes only on Mingi. Seonghwa pretended like he didn’t notice. They all knew by now about Yunho’s little crush on him, but no one brought it up, mainly because Yunho was desperately embarrassed about it. Seonghwa knew too, of course, and smiled and talked with him normally, never flirting or hinting anything, but never putting any distance between them. He liked the attention. 

It was a fundamental aspect of his personality, San had finally figured out. Seonghwa was used to receiving attention. It was a flaw, but not a malicious or spiteful one. He had received so much attention all his life he simply didn’t know how to give enough back. He was a flower, not the sun, and he needed sunlight constantly. 

But San didn’t think he was the sun either.

He liked Seonghwa, he really did. But he needed something back. He was willing to give Seonghwa the sunshine, he was happy to tuck himself away under his shadow, but he couldn’t give him all of it and not get what he needed in return.

And San needed… something. Sitting here in Jongho’s busy, bright living room he couldn’t say what it was, but he needed it. He shouldn’t feel like this. Empty inside, hollow, like his body was nothing but walls that would tumble at the smallest push. 

He shouldn’t feel lonely.

Seonghwa noticed San sitting by himself. He smiled at him and held his hand out, beckoning him over. San joined him on the single seat, half on his lap.

“Yuck, don’t do that in front of us,” said Mingi, being all dramatic and covering his face. 

“What am I supposed to do?” said Seonghwa with a small smirk. “San is too pretty, it’s his fault.”

He tilted his chin up to kiss San on the cheek, and San let him. Seonghwa’s kisses were warm, gentle, and San liked the feel of them. The words were nice too, but the kisses felt more real, so San tilted his head to capture Seonghwa’s lips for a moment. Like this, it was good. Like this San didn’t feel so hollow. 

He could make it work. Seonghwa wasn’t what San had expected, but he wasn’t a bad person. He was funny and his kisses were sweet and during times like these San genuinely enjoyed his company. It would take just a little more time as he got used to how things were now, but San could make things work. He could make them work. 

“I am going to tell Jongho and get you guys kicked out,” said Mingi, making a face. “Can’t you be a little less gross?”

“Trust me, we can be a lot more gross,” said Seonghwa, laughing. San smiled as Mingi made a show of shuddering.

Wooyoung walked up to them, holding a plate of snacks. He looked down at San and Seonghwa disdainfully. “We got enough chairs, stop being mushy,” he said.

“Sounds like you’re a little jealous,” said San. 

“Me? Never,” retorted Wooyoung. “Why would I be jealous of you and your stupid gardening boyfriend?”

“Because he lets me do this,” said Seonghwa, wrapping his arms around San’s waist. To drive the point home San lay backwards over his shoulder, and smirked up at Wooyoung before dissolving into laughter.

“That’s nothing,” shot back Wooyoung loudly. He put down the snacks and yelled, “Yeosang! Where are you?”

“Right here,” said Yeosang, coming up behind him, smile tired but fond. “What are we screaming about tonight?”

“Who’s better, us or them?” asked Wooyoung, with a very pointed look that said there was only one right answer. Yunho laughed at the blunt question, and so did San. 

“I hate this conversation,” grumbled Mingi. “I’ll throw myself out of the building if I have to listen to any more of this.” 

“The window’s open,” deadpanned Yeosang, making everyone laugh. 

“You didn’t answer,” said Wooyoung. He grabbed Yeosang by the arm and shook him. “Just say we’re better than them.”

“Why are you asking him?” asked Yunho. “Of course he’s not gonna say San and Seonghwa-hyung.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Yeosang with a smile. “They’re kind of the perfect couple.”

San forced a smile. The comfortable atmosphere that had built up suddenly felt fractured, hairline cracks so thin only he could see. He had to remind himself that this was reality. This, him dating Seonghwa, this was the real world. Everything else had been nothing more than a dream.

A voice in his mind while he sat in the dark. Soft, sweet caresses with only pressure, no warmth. The purest love he had ever experienced. 

It had to be a fantasy, because if San let them remain memories he would never escape them.

He returned to reality, to the present, to hear Mingi declare he hated all happy couples, including Hongjoong and his laptop. Seonghwa laughed, shaking against San, his arms tightening around his waist. The touch was grounding, like an anchor to reality. 

Everyone gathered for dinner, a very informal affair that was accompanied by Jongho’s classmates sharing stories about difficult courses and grumpy professors. San, naturally, sat beside Seonghwa. The food and the conversation were both good, and San found himself relaxing again. It was good when they met up like this. He liked being around his friends, and Seonghwa did too, and he liked being around Seonghwa when his friends were around. 

It was okay, San told himself. He and Seonghwa would work. After all, all his friends liked Seonghwa, and San loved his friends. 

After dinner they sprawled out over various items of furniture. Hongjoong was already curled up asleep in one corner of the sofa. Jongho’s girlfriend Soojin went to break out the drinks.

“I need someone to help me out here,” said Jongho as he piled up the dirty dishes. “San-hyung?”

San got up to join him at the dining table, picking up glasses. He followed Jongho into the kitchen, set everything inside the sink, and was about to leave when Jongho stepped in front of him.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said quietly. 

“Sure,” said San. “What’s up?”

Jongho looked pensive, and they spent a few seconds in silence before he finally asked, “Are you okay?”

The unexpected question caught San off guard. “Yeah, of course,” he said.

“No, hyung,” said Jongho, eyes serious. “Are you okay? Really?”

His sincere gaze nearly broke something inside San. He wanted to break down, let the walls of his body crumble and collapse into the hollow space inside. But he stayed standing, he stayed collected. “I’m fine,” he said. “Why—why would you ask?”

“You seem different nowadays,” said Jongho. “Less vibrant, you know? Like you’re tired all the time.”

Because San was. He was tired of pretending everything was fine. He was tired of acting like he wasn’t trying so hard to make things work but still, always, without fail, going back to the memories of his time in the dark. He was tired of trying to pretend none of it was real. He was tired of telling himself he didn’t miss _him_.

“I’ve been busy with work,” said San. A lie. That’s all he did nowadays. Lie to his friends, lie to Seonghwa, lie to himself. 

Jongho hummed, thinking it over. And then he asked, “Are things good with Seonghwa-hyung?”

Another blow to the walls holding San up. They were so weak now, tottering. “Things are great,” he said, forcing a smile. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Right, sorry,” said Jongho, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I get this feeling. You don’t look happy.”

“I am,” said San, and this lie hurt. 

“You know, if anything’s bothering you, you can talk to us,” said Jongho. “Any of us. Hyung too. He really likes you.”

“Thank you,” said San. He’d never do it. He couldn’t. Telling Seonghwa or any of his friends about what had happened—about _him_ —was impossible. He could only put another smile on his face, and nod, and tell himself everything was fine. 

Jongho looked unconvinced, but let him go. San slipped past him and rejoined the others in the living room, where Mingi and Wooyoung were involved in a passionate debate over fashion brands. Seonghwa raised an arm in invitation, and San slotted in against his side. 

The rest of the evening was spent in the living room, everyone talking and laughing, and San had fun. When it got late and another of Jongho’s friends also fell asleep, Jongho declared the party officially over. 

They left in pairs. Wooyoung and Yeosang together, Yunho with Mingi. Seonghwa dropped San off in front of his apartment building.

“It’s kind of late,” said San. “Do you wanna just come up and sleep over?”

A smile spread on Seonghwa’s face. “Sure.”

They took turns showering, San letting Seonghwa go first. Seonghwa walked into the living room in a T-shirt and sweatpants, drying his hair with a towel. He looked at home. They’d done this often enough that he’d started leaving extra sets of clothes in San’s apartment.

“Hey, can I ask you something a little weird?” he asked, hovering by the doorway.

“Yeah, of course,” said San.

“Why is there a light in the drawer with my clothes?”

San froze, but only for a split second, and then he was normal again, getting off the sofa. “Just,” he said. 

“You don’t like the dark,” said Seonghwa.

And San wanted to cry at his words. He wanted to crumble and fall apart, let the hollowness inside fill up with the wreckage of the walls. He didn’t like the dark. He—

“No,” murmured San.

“This place is a little gloomy,” said Seonghwa. “You could move out. I’d help you find a new apartment.”

“I can’t,” said San. “I signed a lease.”

Another lie, a pointless one this time. San could move out, and yet he couldn’t. He couldn’t let go of this place, these dark rooms with dark corners and his bedroom that turned pitch black when he turned off the lights.

His thoughts wandered as he stood under the shower. He had to remain focused on reality, on the present. He had work, an essay he needed to write, the project he needed to submit. His professor had given him permission to submit a new version, and it was due in ten days. The problem was San was just as lost as he’d been before.

He stared at the white tile in front of him. Seonghwa hadn’t asked about his project again, if his professor had let him do a new version or commented on it or given him a grade. San was pretty sure he’d forgotten all about it.

And that was okay. Seonghwa wasn’t used to thinking about someone else’s projects and classwork. His own life was busy and interesting, after all. And anyway San hadn’t brought it up so could he really be upset with Seonghwa for forgetting about it? It was just a dumb project. 

Things were okay. Things were going to be fine, they were going to work. San was going to make it work.

He couldn’t live like this, with this emptiness inside that only grew, more and more of him crumbling into the abyss. He would patch over it, build himself anew. He didn’t understand why he even felt this way. He finally had everything he’d ever wanted, a steady job, passing grades, wonderful friends. Seonghwa.

He had Seonghwa. San shouldn’t be living like this.

Seonghwa was waiting for San when he came out, and San went to him without hesitation, seeking his warmth, his solidity. They cuddled in bed, Seonghwa’s arms around San and holding him close. All the lights were on, as always. Seonghwa never complained or asked why. It was just another sweet thing about him.

They were supposed to be happy, the perfect couple. San didn’t know why it was so hard for him. 

“Hyung,” he murmured.

“Yeah?” 

San swallowed. “What do you like about me?”

“All of a sudden?” There was a light chuckle in Seonghwa’s voice.

“I was just wondering,” muttered San. 

He didn’t know why he’d asked. He didn’t know what answer he expected, or hoped for. He just wanted to hear Seonghwa speak, say something that would soothe the ache inside.

“I like everything about you,” said Seonghwa.

It was a typical answer, the correct dialogue option in a video game or line in a drama script. It was an empty answer.

“But what specifically?” pressed San. He wasn’t usually pushy like this, but he needed _something_.

“I thought you were sleepy,” said Seonghwa, now laughing outright.

“I’m serious,” said San. “Just tell me.”

“Fine, alright,” said Seonghwa, still chuckling. “I like you because you’re cute. And you’re sweet and have a beautiful smile.”

Those were good reasons. San held them close to his chest and told himself they were perfectly fine reasons.

But like so often before, Seonghwa’s compliments felt like cotton candy. Sweet, but hollow, dissolving into nothing in San’s mouth. They never felt truly sincere. They felt like just the correct words. 

“And me?” asked Seonghwa. “What do you like about me?”

San fell silent as he thought about it. What had drawn him to Seonghwa? Beyond the picture on the magazine page, beyond his bright eyes and soft hair, beyond his smile and the warm body he held now in his arms? 

“You’re nice,” said San. 

Seonghwa laughed. “Really? That’s all I get?”

“You’re friendly, and you get along with everyone,” said San. “You’re funny and you make everyone laugh. And you’re—you’re warm. You’re like light.”

And it was true, all of it. Seonghwa was everything San said, and more. 

“I’m happy I’m with you,” said San, but this one tasted like a lie.

“Oh, baby,” said Seonghwa. He pulled away from San to bend down and kiss him. 

San responded with fervor, parting his lips to take his tongue into his mouth, sliding his hand into his hair to pull him closer. When they finally separated they were both panting.

“I thought you were tired,” said Seonghwa with a smirk.

San shook his head, and then pulled him in for another kiss. He wanted him. The warmth, the touch, the light. Seonghwa. He’d chosen Seonghwa, and he was going to be happy with him.

He closed his eyes and lost himself in him. 

San opened his eyes to darkness.

It was a wall before his eyes, impossible to break through. He saw nothing but black.

Another dream. He dreamt often nowadays. Sometimes nightmares, hellish replays of the last night San had sat in the dark, where a voice would whisper at him more cruelly than _he_ ever would, telling him everything he already knew in the corners of his heart. They hurt, but they were bearable. One night San had dreamt he’d been sitting in the dark when it suddenly crumbled around him, disappearing into nonexistence. He’d woken up in tears.

San preferred the nightmares. The dreams were much, much worse. He woke from them exhausted, tormented by the details he could remember and desperate for those he couldn’t. They were a different kind of torture, and they filled him with guilt worse than the nightmares.

He shouldn’t think of those nights. They were fantasy, and never existed. He shouldn’t miss them.

San lay, unmoving, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. The darkness remained, heavy as ever, silent. A hair tickled San’s face, and he brushed it off. As he did, realization hit. 

He wasn’t dreaming. He was awake.

He was awake and in the dark, and _he_ could see him. With Seonghwa.

San leapt up, scrambling with the sheets. He needed to get up. He needed the light. _He_ wasn’t supposed to see them, he knew but he shouldn’t see, San didn’t want to hurt him again—

He tried to get out of bed, but he didn’t realize his foot was still tangled in the sheets. San’s left knee slipped off the edge and he tipped forward, falling—

And he was caught.

San’s breath stopped in his chest. He was frozen mid-air, tilted forward. And then, slowly, a steady force all over the front of his body pushed him upright and placed him back in bed.

San’s heart was pounding so hard he feared it might break apart. He wrapped his arms around himself, tight, trying to stop himself from shaking. He had felt it. The touch on him, holding him with no warmth but steady pressure. 

He had felt _him_.

“Seonghwa?” San’s voice was small and pathetic in the infinite darkness. He didn’t know who he was calling out to.

No response. All San received was empty silence.

He climbed out of bed. His legs felt weak, barely able to carry his weight. He staggered forward blindly until he found the wall with the light switch. He turned it on.

Light exploded in the room, burning San’s eyes. He rubbed them with a palm, hard, until the light was bearable and he could see.

Seonghwa was stirring, groaning as he threw an arm over his face. He’d been asleep. He hadn’t caught San. 

It had been _him_.

San’s knees buckled, and he pressed his back to the wall for support. It wasn’t enough. He was still trembling, but not from fear. 

“What are you doing?” asked Seonghwa, voice slurred and heavy with sleep. 

“The lights were off,” said San. His voice shook with a tremor.

“Huh?” Seonghwa looked at him through bleary eyes as he sat up.

“The lights were off,” repeated San, louder this time. “I woke up and it was dark.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep,” said Seonghwa. “Can you come back to bed?”

“I don’t like the dark,” said San, and he tried to stop but he only shook more than ever. “You know I—I can’t be in the dark.”

“But you were already asleep,” said Seonghwa. He smiled. “And I’m here, I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

San wanted to laugh. He didn’t need _protection_. There was nothing dangerous in the dark, nothing that didn’t love him a thousand times more than he loved himself, that saved him and kept him from harm even now, even when he was like this—

He wrapped his arms around his naked upper body. He was wearing pyjama bottoms but he’d never felt so exposed. _He_ had seen San. He had seen him with Seonghwa.

“Baby, can you come back to bed already?” asked Seonghwa. He sounded tired. 

No, he couldn’t. San couldn’t move from where he was, wall at his back the only thing keeping him up. He was sure if he took a single step he would crumble.

“Did you do it before?” asked San.

“Do what?” asked Seonghwa.

“Turn off the lights,” said San. “Did you do it before?”

“A couple of times,” said Seonghwa. Something must have changed in San’s face, because Seonghwa suddenly looked worried and said quickly, “I’m sorry, I just can’t sleep with all the light—”

He said more, but San didn’t hear. Nausea spiked in his gut, clawing at his throat. _He_ had seen them. He had seen them so many times, he had seen San sleeping in Seonghwa’s arms, he had seen the marks that even now littered San’s neck and chest. _He_ had _seen_. 

“Get out,” said San.

Seonghwa frowned. “What?”

“Please leave,” said San, voice cracking. He couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m sorry, I—I need to be alone right now. Please.”

“It’s like 3 am, San,” said Seonghwa, bewildered. “You can’t kick me out!”

San didn’t answer, only rubbed his face with his hands, pulled at his hair. He needed to ground himself. He needed to stay calm, but it was so hard. Everything had felt wrong and hard and broken for so long, and he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He was falling apart.

“Is this seriously because of the lights?” asked Seonghwa. “I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s nothing, San. It’s just the dark.”

A lump formed in San’s throat. No.

“Come back to bed,” said Seonghwa, already getting ready to lay back down. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“What’s my favorite drink?”

Seonghwa stopped, frowned. “What?”

“My favorite drink,” said San. “What is it? When we go out to your favorite coffee shop, hyung, I always order the same thing. What is it?”

“What? What are you talking about?” Seonghwa looked confused. “You need to sleep. Come here.”

“I will when you answer me,” said San, voice steady. “Every time we go, when you order your caramel latte because you love coffee but you also love sweet things, I order something too. What is it, hyung? What do I like?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” said Seonghwa. “We’ll talk in the morning, it’s late—”

“Am I?” San found his voice rising, and he didn’t care. “What do I like? Do you know? Do you even care?”

“San,” said Seonghwa firmly. “That’s enough. Come back to bed.”

“Tell me,” said San. Tears stung his eyes. “Tell me and I will.”

Seonghwa looked at him, and said nothing.

“Please,” whispered San. 

His vision blurred with tears, but it wasn’t enough. He saw Seonghwa look away.

“Get out,” said San, and this time Seonghwa climbed out of bed.

San didn’t look at him, not even once as he gathered his clothes and got dressed. He couldn’t. He felt unsettled, like his insides were all jumbled up, all the pieces thrown together. One wrong step and they’d all scatter. He’d fall apart.

When Seonghwa was dressed he walked towards the bedroom door, next to where San stayed against the wall. “I’m going,” he said. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay?” 

He reached out for him and San flinched away. He saw the hurt on Seonghwa’s face, and it only added to the storm in his chest, all guilt and regret and pain and so much more he couldn’t even put a name to. Seonghwa didn’t say anything, only turned and walked out of the room.

As soon as San heard the front door close, he collapsed. His legs gave and he fell to the floor, back sliding against the cold wall. He just couldn’t hold himself up anymore. All his walls had fallen, down to their very foundations, and he couldn’t push them up, he couldn’t rebuild them. He had nothing left to rebuild with.

Everything was ruined. San had nothing to hold, nothing to anchor himself to. He didn’t love Seonghwa. He couldn’t. 

Things were not going to be okay.

San buried his face in his hands and cried. 


	8. Silent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> San sat on his bed in the black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we start, please look at [this beautiful fanart](https://twitter.com/Vrion14/status/1247375190914297858) by the amazing Vrion14! It is absolutely stunning, i am so honoured ♡
> 
> And now on to the chapter!

On a clear winter day, San broke up with Seonghwa.

Seonghwa listened as he spoke, taking in every word without interrupting. Surprise turned to confusion, until he was frowning at San, brow furrowed. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” said San. The words were nothing compared to how he felt, but he had to say them. “I am so sorry.”

“No, wait,” said Seonghwa, running a hand through his perfect hair. “I don’t understand. Is this—is this because of that night? I told you, I’m sorry for that, I won’t do it again.”

“No, it’s not—it’s not because of you,” said San. He took a deep breath. “It’s just… me. I’m not ready for a relationship.”

Seonghwa gave him a long look. It was obvious he didn’t believe him.

“I thought I was,” said San. He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts in order, put them in a way Seonghwa would understand. “I thought… I needed you…”

“Needed me,” repeated Seonghwa. “But you don’t.”

San bit his lower lip. “I just need to be single now,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s not because of you.”

But he could see the disbelief in Seonghwa’s eyes. He didn’t believe him. And San understood, he knew his behavior looked strange, erratic, but he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

He didn’t need Park Seonghwa. He had thought he did, but he didn’t, and he never had. He had only ever needed the idea of him.

The one San needed, he would talk to him that night.

But first he had to do this. He couldn’t hold on any longer, trying to convince himself of an obvious lie. He and Seonghwa wouldn’t work, and he needed to end their relationship. For himself, for Seonghwa.

“So you’re breaking up with me,” said Seonghwa, like he was still trying to process that point. “Because… just because?”

San swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Seonghwa looked at him, and then laughed. It was a surprised laugh, more of disbelief than anything else. “You can’t seriously be dumping me over a light, San,” he said. “I only ever turned it off after you’d already fallen asleep, and I apologized. You kicked me out of your apartment at three in the morning and I left. How are you still mad at me?”

“I’m not mad,” said San. He half wanted to cry out of frustration, but he wouldn’t. He had cried enough two nights ago. “I swear, you didn’t do anything, hyung. I just… I have some issues I need to work out. Alone.”

“Yeah, you do,” said Seonghwa. “Call me when you’re over whatever you’re hung up on.”

“Hyung,” said San desperately. “Please. I’m sorry. It’s over.”

Seonghwa sighed, shook his head. Then he turned and walked away, leaving San alone in the bright afternoon sun.

That night San sat in his dark bedroom, and waited.

The darkness was a curtain before his eyes, so thick he was blind in it. He had turned off all the lights, drawn the curtains. There was not a sliver of light in the room.

San sat on his bed in the black.

He waited, feeling the air against his skin. It was light, no thick swirl of presence he had once been so used to, but he knew. He wasn’t alone. _He_ was here, watching him. He had always been here, always watching over San, always making sure he was safe. He was in the room, and San was waiting for him to say something.

But he didn’t speak.

Seconds ticked by, then minutes, hours. And still the air around San was empty. There was no soft touch against his skin, no caress without warmth running across it. No voice, so warm, so loving, in his mind. _He_ didn’t touch, didn’t speak. He didn’t do anything.

San swallowed. “I know you’re here.”

His voice was lost in the infinite darkness. He knew _he_ could hear him. _He_ had to know San was here for him, to talk to him. Why didn’t he answer?

San pulled his knees up to his chest, and waited.

“You and Seonghwa-hyung are fighting?”

“We’re not fighting,” said San. “We broke up.”

“What?” Yeosang sounded stunned.

San tried not to sigh. He was tired. Yeosang had called him right after a long, grueling class, and he had another in less than ten minutes that he needed to prepare for. It felt like no matter what San did, how hard he tried, he was always falling behind, always too slow. Always tired.

He hadn’t slept well the previous night. He had stayed up as long as he could, sitting in the dark, speaking to the emptiness and waiting for an answer. He hadn’t gotten any. He’d drifted to sleep, leaning against the wall, and woken up in bed, pillow under his head and blanket tucked securely around him. He’d nearly screamed in frustration.

 _He_ ’d been there. He’d been there, and he’d ignored San, only to lay him out in bed after he’d fallen asleep.

San didn’t know what _he_ wanted, and he hated it.

“You broke up?” asked Yeosang. “When? I mean—why?”

“Yesterday,” said San. It felt like eons ago, but it had only been one night.

“What? You…” Yeosang trailed off. “Hyung said you were fighting.”

“We’re not,” said San. He paused. “He told you about that?”

“He was surprised I didn’t know,” said Yeosang. “He thought you’d told me. You didn’t tell anyone.”

“No, because it only happened yesterday,” said San, and now he did sigh.

It was silent on the line as Yeosang processed what he’d been told. “Why?” he finally asked.

Why? What could San say? How could he explain that he could not date Seonghwa because he could not love him? That no matter how he’d tried to convince himself otherwise, the truth was he’d already given his heart away, to something that had no form and no age and no name, but made him feel happier and more fulfilled than he’d ever thought possible?

“It’s complicated,” said San. “He… we weren’t a good match.”

“You seemed like a great match,” said Yeosang. “I thought you guys were really happy together.”

“I… I thought so too,” said San.

Another silence, and then Yeosang asked, so carefully, “Did he do something?”

“No,” said San at once. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s great. He’s just not right for me.”

“Okay,” said Yeosang slowly. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Maybe later,” said San. He was too tired to come up with a reasonable excuse right then, and he didn’t want to lie any more than he had to. All the lies weighed on him even more.

“Okay, that’s fine,” said Yeosang. He paused. “I’m sorry you guys broke up, but I guess if something doesn’t work it’s better to let it go.”

Tears came to San’s eyes in a sudden rush, and he had to stop walking and force them down. Yeosang’s words meant more than he could’ve imagined. Yes, if something didn’t work it was better to let go. 

“Thanks,” said San. His voice sounded thick, even to his own ears, but he didn’t care. 

“Of course, San,” said Yeosang, voice so gentle. “We’re always here for you, remember that, okay?”

San swallowed. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You can’t just ignore me.” 

The darkness swallowed up the words. It gave nothing in return.

Another night in the dark, another night of waiting for _him_. For a response, a word, anything at all. San sat in the same place he had the night before, back to the wall, knees to his chest. He would sit there all night if he had to. 

“I need to talk to you,” said San. “Stop ignoring me.”

Still nothing. The silent, unmoving darkness was nearly suffocating, a solid weight on every side. But none of that thick presence San needed, none of that empty touch on his skin. 

It was like _he_ wasn’t there, but San knew better than that. _He_ was always there. That night, that last night San had slept in Seonghwa’s arms, _he_ had been there then too, catching him before he could get hurt, keeping him safe. 

San wrapped his arms around himself as the memory came back. He had seen San with Seonghwa, with all those marks on his skin, and he had still caught him. He didn’t hate San. If he had hated San he wouldn’t have caught him.

San held the thought close to his heart.

Yunho looked guilty, unable to meet San’s gaze. “I heard you and Seonghwa-hyung…”

San forced a smile. “Yeah.”

“Is it…?” Yunho risked a glance. “Did I, I dunno, was it awkward because of me or—?”

“You didn’t do anything,” said San firmly. He held Yunho’s face with both hands, gently forcing eye contact. “It’s not your fault, like, at all. Hyung and I just weren’t a good match.”

“But you guys seemed so good together,” said Yunho, lost. “Even at Jongho’s place…”

“Yeah, I know,” said San with a sad smile. 

Yunho looked at him, kind face mirroring San’s sadness. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What happened?”

San licked his lips, trying to arrange what he had to say. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” he said finally. It was important everyone knew that. “I think I… I thought I needed a boyfriend, you know? And he was so good-looking and popular and fun. But I don’t need a boyfriend. And hyung and I don’t fit. It’s better for both of us.”

He could see it in Yunho’s face, that he didn’t believe him, not totally, but Yunho still nodded. He was trying his best to understand. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I… I hope it is better for you guys.”

And that was it. No trying to convince San to change his mind, no insisting he try again with Seonghwa. That meant everything and more. 

“Thanks,” said San, and he wrapped his arms around Yunho in a hug.

And again San was in the dark.

He had given up sitting, and lay down flat on his bed. He was tired, tired down to his bones. He just wanted to talk to _him_ again.

“Please,” he said. It sounded close to begging, but San didn’t care anymore. “You can’t keep ignoring me like this.”

All he got in return was silence. San rolled over, frustrated. He wanted to kick the bed, thrash around like a child throwing a tantrum. He was tired, and lonely, and he wanted _him_ , his loving dark.

“You’re horrible,” he said into the endless darkness. “You can’t—you won’t even—how could you do this to me?”

San kicked out, rolled over again. Still he received no answer, and he was beginning to no longer expect any. His loving, attentive dark would ignore him for the rest of his nights. He would never talk to him again, and San would deserve it. 

The thought brought tears to his eyes, and he willed them away. He would not cry. Not in front of him.

“I know,” said San, twisting, turning in bed, “I know I have no right to talk, to demand anything, but _please_. I—I want—”

He rolled, and felt nothing but empty air underneath. He’d gone too far, past the edge, no more bed for him to roll onto, and San was falling face first towards the hard tiled floor—

And stopped. 

“No,” gasped San, reaching desperately for a body he knew he wouldn’t be able to feel. “No, please, don’t go, don’t leave me—”

He was gently lifted, pushed back into bed. San’s fingers scrambled across his chest, his waist, but it was no use. There was nothing for him to hold onto, to clutch and keep against his body. The touch faded into nothing.

San dissolved into tears.

They rolled hot and wet down his face, and he let them. He hated crying, hated letting anyone see him cry, but he didn’t care anymore. He was alone in every way that mattered. He was alone, and tired, and all he could do was curl up and cry.

<Please don’t.>

San’s breath caught in his throat. He sat up, roughly wiped the tears from his face. 

<Please don’t cry. I’m sorry.>

“It’s you,” said San, voice thick and broken with sobs. “You…”

<Yes.> Hesitation, and then, <I’m sorry. I’ll give you whatever you want, whatever I can. Please don’t cry anymore.>

“You,” said San, swallowing the tears that were lodged tight in his throat. “Stay, please. I want—I need to talk to you.”

The reply came, so soft. <I’m here.>

San rubbed his face, wiping away what remained of the wetness, trying to find the words he needed. Now that he finally had _him_ before him, he didn’t know what to say.

And he had so much he needed to say. So many words, so many confessions and apologies inside. And yet he felt so empty at the same time, like there was nothing inside him, nothing but the howling wind. Like everything was only the wind.

“Do you hate me?” whispered San.

Silence. And then: <That’s cruel.>

San said nothing, only waited.

<It’s cruel of you to ask,> he said. <When you know I love you so much.>

The words echoed in San’s mind, touching every edge and corner. He loved him. San knew that, but to hear it in his words, in his voice, was something he’d needed. It was the truth but it didn’t feel like it. It didn’t feel like it could be, not after everything that had happened. Everything San had done.

“I hurt you,” said San.

<You did,> he said. <You hurt me more than I thought real. I’ve been worshipped as a god, reviled as a demon. I’ve been prayed to and whispered to and begged. But no one has ever, ever, made me feel like you did.>

San didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

<But I love you, San.> The words were soft, sad. <I can’t stop just because you hurt me.>

“I would hate me,” said San, voice hardly more than a whisper. “I do hate me.”

<Don’t,> said the other. <You don’t deserve it. All you deserve is love. I hope you have it now.>

“How can you say that?” asked San. “How can you—how can you believe that?”

<Because it’s the truth,> he said. <How could I hate you? It was brief, but you made me feel more loved than I ever felt before. I wish I could think back to those precious moments and be happy. I wish I could still believe they were real.>

“They were,” said San.

<No, San. They weren’t. You never loved me.>

San’s heart crumbled in his chest. He shook his head pathetically.

<It’s…> A brief pause. <I understand now. I should’ve understood then. But I’m glad I made you happy.>

“You did,” said San. “More than anything, more than anyone. You made me happy.”

Silence followed San’s words. And then finally: <Are you happy now?>

San swallowed, shook his head.

Another silence, this one shorter. <You looked happy. With him. Seonghwa.>

The name sounded wrong in his voice. He said it with a kind of care, like the word was precious but the person was unworthy.

<I saw the two of you together.> There was an undertone to his words different from the resigned pain of before. Something like anger, maybe, or bitterness. <I know you didn’t want me to but I did. He used to kiss you in your sleep. On your lips, your cheeks. I never did that.>

San chewed his lower lip. “I didn’t know that.” He didn’t know what he was referring to.

<You didn’t say I could, so I didn’t. Did you like it, San? Should I have done it? While I had you, should I have kissed you in your sleep?>

“Please don’t say things that,” whispered San, while his throat closed with the threat of fresh tears. “Please.”

The other didn’t respond immediately. <You’re right,> he said. <I never had you.>

San sunk his teeth into his lower lip, biting the tears back. No more.

<I wanted to hate him.> The words were like a whisper in his mind. <For taking you away from me, for stealing you away. But all he did was exist. He didn’t take you away, because I never had you. You only loved him.>

“No,” said San. The word was sharp like a knife in his throat. “No, I never loved him.”

<Don’t—>

“No, you listen to me,” said San. He couldn’t take any more of this. This hurt, this resignation. “I didn’t love him. I don’t.”

Silence followed, empty in the air. <I don’t understand.>

And San laughed. “I didn’t either,” he said. “I thought I loved him, because… because it made sense. And then I thought I had to love him, because I had nothing else. But I don’t love him. I never did. For fuck’s sake, I never even knew him.”

<Did he do something?> And now San could feel him, that heaviness in the air, seeping forth despite his effort to hold it back. <Did he do something to you? Did he hurt you?>

 _No. I hurt myself, a thousand times over._ “He didn’t hurt me,” said San. “We weren’t right for each other.”

This time the silence that followed was longer, heavier, as he worked out San’s words. Then, finally, he said, <I’m sorry.>

“I know,” said San. 

<I wanted you to be happy.>

“I know you did,” said San. “And I tried. But I couldn’t be happy without you.”

<San…>

“I know, I know I was horrible and I have no right to ask you,” said San. He swallowed, tried to push that tightness down. “But please. Please come back to me. I need you. I don’t want or need anyone else, only you.”

The silence that followed was torturous. San waited it out. He needed an answer. He needed him to know how much he needed him, how much he loved him. San couldn’t imagine being without him, knowing he was hurting and alone, friendless. He needed him. 

And then finally, after an age, the answer came. <Please don’t ask that of me.>

San’s heart cracked under the weight of the words. 

<You won’t be happy with me,> he continued, voice measured and calm, edged with a kind of soft sadness. <I won’t ever be enough for you.>

“You are,” said San, desperation rising in his throat. “You were.”

<I wasn’t, San. I always knew it.>

The words bloomed more pain in San’s chest. “You were,” he said. “You gave me everything I ever wanted, everything and more. I didn’t understand then but I do now.”

<I’m not human,> he said.

“That doesn’t matter to me,” said San.

<It does!> Another rush of that heaviness in the air, his presence, spreading like ink. San reached his hands out, feeling for him, letting him know he could stay. He didn’t need to hold himself back. San wanted him.

He stayed, hanging heavy around him, but he didn’t touch. <It does,> he repeated, quieter this time. <It always will.>

“It doesn’t,” said San fiercely. “I don’t care.” 

And it was true. He didn’t care. All those things he had done with Seonghwa—going on dates, introducing him to his friends, taking pictures together—none of it was important. _He_ was important. San needed _him_.

For some time, he did not speak. When he did, his voice was calm. <I would’ve stayed.>

“What?” San didn’t understand. 

<If it hadn’t been him,> he said, voice so even, so empty. <If you wanted someone else, some other human. I would’ve stayed. So long as you let me love you, I would’ve stayed by your side, waited for you to come home to me every night. I tried to understand. I wasn’t enough for you.>

“No, that’s not…” San licked his lips, finding them unbearably dry. “Why?”

<Because I love you. Because I wanted to be with you, however I could. In whatever way you let me.> A pause, a swirl of movement in the heavy presence. <But when I realized it was him… I knew. You didn’t love me. You never loved me. I deceived myself.>

“You didn’t,” said San. “I just—I didn’t understand, I was so confused when he showed up and—and—”

<San, please.>

San fell silent, chest heaving. “You don’t believe me,” he said softly. 

<I want to.> The words were pained. <I want to but how can I? When you left me the moment he arrived? When I was only precious to you so long as you could pretend I was someone else?>

“That is _not_ what I was doing,” said San. A kind of spark had lit in his chest, and he held onto it, let it burn inside him. “I didn’t—I was confused. Yes, I thought of him when I was with you, but only his face.”

<Then why did you choose him?>

“Because I didn’t understand,” said San. “I started mixing the two of you up. I thought—I thought he was you. I started linking you with him, your thoughts, your personality. And deep inside I thought I didn’t have a choice. You… you weren’t real.”

It had taken him so long, but he’d finally seen the truth. The mistakes he’d made, why he’d made them. San finally understood. He finally understood reality, his past, the hurt he’d caused himself and everyone else. He finally understood himself.

<That hasn’t changed,> he said softly.

“How can you say that?” cried San. “You _are_ real.”

<Not to anyone else. Not where it matters.>

“That is what I’m trying to tell you,” said San, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. Not to me.”

<I’m sorry, San,> he said. <I can’t. When I know you won’t truly be happy with me. I can’t lie. Not even to myself.>

And San knew that. Tears filled his eyes again.

<I’m sorry,> he said. <I will give you anything I can, but not this.>

San shook his head. He didn’t want anything else.

<I wish you happiness,> he said, so sweet, so genuine. <You deserve so much happiness, angel.>

The first tear threatened to fall. San crushed it out of his eye. 

“Please,” he mumbled. “I… I can’t even call for you, I can’t… how am I supposed to be without you?”

He got no answer. San raised his head, looked around like he’d be able to see him if he tried.

“Hey,” he said, a line of panic rising. “You. Are you still here?”

<I am,> came the soft reply.

San took a deep breath. At least. He was still here, for at least one moment more.

<You can call me Seonghwa.>

San’s breath caught. “Are—are you sure?”

<Yes. It’s like you said. It’s my name now.>

Every word was tinted with sadness, but no bitterness. San felt what remained of his heart break away.

<San,> said Seonghwa. <I love you.>

And then he was gone.

His heavy presence disappeared from the air. So sudden, like the snap of broken ice, the tick of the second hand. San moved his fingers through the air, feeling nothing.

Empty. 

San was alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, you didn't see wrong. There is a final chapter count now.
> 
> I'm sorry to spring it on you all like this! But the fic is nearing the end of its natural life, and i thought it'd be better to warn you now then just... complete the fic ^^;;
> 
> Thank you all for all the love you've shown _Tenebrous_! I hope you'll enjoy these last couple of chapters too ♡


	9. Promised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Seonghwa wasn’t here he still had to live.

“Choi San, do you know why I’ve called you to my office?”

“Is this about my project?”

Professor Han peered at him over her glasses. “Yes, actually.”

San chewed his lower lip. “Did I do bad?”

His professor looked at him, and didn’t answer. Instead she asked, “Why did you decide to paint it?”

He glanced at the canvas sitting on the long table beside her desk. “There were things I needed to capture,” said San. “I had to do it with a brush.”

“Most of your classmates did their art digitally,” said the professor.

“I know,” said San. He hesitated. “You didn’t specify medium, so I thought…”

She raised a hand. “It’s fine. I was only curious.”

San nodded.

A silence settled over the room as the professor scanned the painting. “Very curious,” she said finally, eyes still on the canvas. “At first viewing it looks like nothing but a canvas of solid black.”

San didn’t say anything, only nodded to show he was listening. She was right. It did look like nothing but black, but only if you didn’t bother looking closer. 

“A closer inspection reveals details,” continued Professor Han. “Some very unexpected details. Stars?”

She looked at him now, and he nodded once more. 

“And feathers,” she said. “Very light. I only noticed those much later.”

“Books, too,” said San. He saw the surprised look on her face, and showed her where he’d put them, faint smudges in a gray so dark it was nearly lost in the black. “The pages here. Scrolls. Lightning at the top of the canvas, here…” 

She followed his hands, eyes tracing the details he pointed out, the thin hair-like cracks of lighter gray depicting the lightning. “Fascinating,” said the professor. “Usually you’d find such minute details as accompaniments to a clear subject in a painting, or a centerpiece. That you’ve added these details but no subject is unusual, to say the least.”

“The darkness is the subject,” said San. 

Professor Han gave him a look at that. “Unusual,” she murmured.

He sat still, waiting for her to speak. San had become very good at that. Waiting for replies.

“Your interpretation of the theme was quite basic, in a way,” continued the professor. “I asked for hidden corners, and you’ve brought me details hidden in darkness. Quite basic, but well-executed, and interesting.”

“Thank you, professor,” murmured San. That hadn’t been what he’d had in mind, but he didn’t bother to correct her. 

“I don’t think this would be as commercially popular as some of the works your classmates submitted,” said Professor Han. “It’s a very subtle work. But have you thought of submitting it to an art gallery?”

San had not. He blinked at the woman opposite, surprised. “You think someone would want to put it up?” 

“Of course,” said Professor Han. “It’s a very interesting piece, and with my recommendation… what do you think? Would you agree?”

“I… sure,” said San. He smiled. “Thank you. I’m really happy you like it!”

The professor returned his smile, leaned back in her chair. “I will let you know what my friends say then,” she said. “I’m a little surprised you agreed so quickly. Your work feels very… personal.”

“It is,” said San. “But I still want to share it.” 

“That’s wonderful,” said Professor Han. “And the title will remain the same?”

“Yes,” said San. He glanced at the canvas of darkness. “Its name is _Promise_.”

The sun was bright in the yard outside the building Professor Han’s office was located in, and San raised his face to the sky, enjoying the warmth of the rays. It was a good day. Not even lunch, and he already had something good to write about. 

He slipped his phone out of his pocket and dialed Wooyoung’s number. He picked up on the third ring.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m on campus. Wanna have lunch together?”

Wooyoung did. Yeosang and Jongho were free too, and they joined them.

It was a loud affair, like it always was when Wooyoung and San were in one place together. At one point Jongho hid his face in his hands in desperation.

“Trying to make sure no one can identify me,” he said, making Wooyoung laugh so hard he nearly overturned the table.

“Good idea,” said Yeosang. “Wouldn’t want you to be implicated when I eventually murder Wooyoung and dump his body in a river.”

“Are you gonna murder me too?” asked San, trying for his most innocent look and batting his eyelashes.

“Of course not San,” said Yeosang sweetly. Wooyoung squawked and started an offended protest that lasted the rest of the meal. 

When the food was finished and the bill paid, they split. Yeosang and Wooyoung returned to their apartment. San and Jongho went back to the university for afternoon classes.

They walked in easy silence. San was still in a buoyant mood from the lunch, and a smile lingered on his face. He loved his friends. He was forever grateful for them and all that they’d done for him, whether they were aware of it or not.

“Hey,” said Jongho, without warning, as they approached the gates.

“Yeah?” San was still smiling as he turned to him.

Jongho looked at him, face inscrutable, then he shook his head. “Nothing,” he said.

“What is it?” asked San, now grinning wide. “It’s not nothing.”

“No, it…” Jongho smiled. “I’m happy to see you like this.”

“Like what?” asked San.

“Alive,” said Jongho.

“I was always alive,” said San, but he knew what Jongho meant.

“I know,” said Jongho. He chuckled softly. “Still, I’m happy.”

San looked at him, at his lovely friend who had cared for him so much and seen through all his constructed smiles and false happiness, and nodded with a smile.

Yes, San was alive. He was more alive than he had been in so long.

He felt whole. He no longer felt made from wood and sawdust, some poor imitation of a human being all held up with supports and held together with string. Some wounds were raw, some ached with the pain of a thousand cuts when he pressed against them, but they were his own. They reminded San he was real, and human. He was alive.

He and Jongho eventually separated when they reached the building Jongho’s class was. San stood by the doors a moment, watching as Jongho disappeared upstairs, and then as other students poured in and out, a steady stream of humanity. There were so many people. There were always so many people, and he was just one of them. It was so easy to lose himself in it, in the thought that he was just one person out of so many, but he knew that wasn’t true. 

San was someone special. He was loved by someone special.

The class was uninteresting, but he was able to pay attention through it. He talked to a few classmates afterward, discussing upcoming chapter topics and what they’d tackled in past classes. San barely remembered what they’d been about. It was like he’d sailed through the past months trapped inside his own head.

He needed to readjust to reality. San was alive. It had been difficult to believe, sitting alone in the dark that fateful night, but it was true. He was alive, and he needed to live.

The pain was still there. It still sat in San’s chest, that ache that surged when he thought of it, when he thought of him. Seonghwa. _His_ Seonghwa, his love. The one he still missed desperately, every day, every night. 

But San had to live. While Seonghwa wasn’t here he still had to live.

So he carried the pain with him. And it was alright, letting it live in his ribcage, letting it become a part of him. It was normal. It was like the loneliness he had carried in his blood so many years, but different, more acute. That had been something San had thought was just another layer of his skin. This was a sharp shard of hurt lodged in the muscles of his heart. 

It was odd, but San wasn’t lonely anymore. Not like he had been before. 

He still had Seonghwa’s love, he knew. One day Seonghwa would realize how much San loved him in return. 

The sun was hanging halfway down the sky when San was done with classes. It was still far from sunset, which was a shame because San had work and he would miss it. He loved watching the sun sink below the horizon, like it was going to sleep, painting the world warm and gold before it left for the night. When he got out of the office it would already be dark.

He was so busy watching the clear sky he almost missed the familiar person in front of him. San came to a stop as he saw him, the face that had consumed his mind for so long.

It was Park Seonghwa.

He was with some friends, two girls with dark hair, one who San recognized from the gardening club. He caught sight of San, and froze. Then Seonghwa said something to his friends and walked over, leaving them behind. 

San took a deep breath, braced himself. He couldn’t run, no matter how much he wanted to. He had to face him.

“Sunbae,” he said, hoping for a polite, friendly tone. 

Seonghwa regarded him. San still felt a slight flutter in his chest when he looked at him, when he saw Seonghwa’s piercing eyes and his handsome face, the plush lips that he always imagined curving into a smile. But he had redrawn the lines. This Seonghwa, no matter how beautiful, was not _that_ Seonghwa. He could not make San happy like he could, because he was not him. 

San had made that mistake once before, and it had cost him everything. He was not making it again.

“Hello, San,” said Seonghwa.

It had been over two weeks since San had broken up with him. They had met a few times in between, while San tried desperately to convince Seonghwa that it was not a fight, that their relationship was over. As they stood before each other now, the truth was obvious to both of them.

“I hope you’ve been well,” said San.

“You too,” said Seonghwa, but his voice was cold. He sighed. “I can’t do this. Can you check if I left one of my shirts at your place? The purple one. If you remember.”

It felt like a barb, but one San deserved, and he accepted it. “Okay,” he said. 

He thought Seonghwa would leave after that, but he didn’t. Instead he looked at San and said, “You still won’t tell me why.”

San bit his lower lip. “I told you why.”

But Seonghwa just shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”

“It’s the truth,” said San. “I… I don’t think I’m made for dating.”

“I thought we were good together,” said Seonghwa.

“I thought so too,” said San. “I really really did. But we wouldn’t have worked.”

Seonghwa only looked at him, face impassive. For a moment he looked as though he would ask again, but he didn’t. Instead he scoffed. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” said San in a small voice.

“I know, you said that before,” said Seonghwa.

“I meant it,” said San.

Another silence, tight, uncomfortable. San was willing to wait it out.

“Just give me back my shirt if you find it,” said Seonghwa. 

And then he was gone, walking away before San could say another word. San watched him go, a strange emptiness echoing in his chest. He knew Seonghwa was hurt, he knew he’d hurt him too. San had made too many mistakes to wave away into nothingness. 

It was easy to lose himself in regret, in all the pain he had caused. But he had to look forward. The future was what was important now. San couldn’t lose sight of that.

He went to work. The office was busy, and his workload kept him occupied. In between he doodled on a notepad, and looked at the Chinese evergreen plant he kept at his desk.

By the time San started home it was already night. He watched the lampposts go by while he sat in the bus, earphones in and playing a radio station. He was listening to the radio a lot these days. There was something charming about it, the voice of the radio host in his ears, soothing after a long day. As a ballad song came on San let his mind drift. 

He had had a busy day today. Not so special, maybe, but still special enough for him. There would be a lot to say.

Empty darkness welcomed San into his apartment. He stood in the doorway a moment, watching the way the light of the foyer stretched his shadow out into the living room, the vague outlines of the rest of the things inside. Then he entered, closed the door behind him, and flicked on the light.

Shadows clung to the far corners of the room. San had long since stopped minding them. After his breakup he had removed all the extra lights he had installed, packing them away in boxes and stowing them at the back of his closet. They had always given him a headache, and he didn’t need them anymore. 

He showered and changed, and made himself dinner. He watched TV as he ate. A romantic drama was on, a rather clichéd one that San enjoyed regardless. The female lead got into a car accident halfway through the episode and woke up with amnesia at the end. San laughed aloud. 

When he was done, and he’d washed the pots and pans and the bowl he’d eaten out of, San got ready for bed. 

He turned off all the lights, turned on his bedside lamp. He climbed into bed, resting his back against the wall as he got comfortable under the blanket. Then San opened his bedside drawer and took out a spiral notebook and a pen. 

He needed to write a letter.

As he closed the drawer his eyes fell on all the letters he’d written before. They were just as he’d left them, unfolded and weighed down by a glass paperweight. San didn’t know if they were read. He kept writing them. 

He had another one to write tonight. 

San leaned back and started. 

> _Seonghwa,_
> 
> _Today was a busy day. I told you last night Professor Han wanted to see me. It was about my project, but it turns out I didn’t fail! It was actually the opposite!! She really liked my work and said she was going to try and get it displayed in an art gallery! She’ll contact me later with the details but I’m so excited. I never thought I’d ever have anything displayed like that. I didn’t even know I could paint! _
> 
> _I’m sure you already saw it but it was for you. I thought of keeping it here so we could see it every day but I kind of wanted other people to see it too. It’s like a declaration. I know it’s dumb but that’s really what it feels like. I can’t tell people about you but I can tell them with that, right?_
> 
> _I don’t know why I’m worrying about it. Probably no one will buy it anyway ^^"_

San pressed the end of the pen against his lips as he thought of what else to say. He wrote down a little more about his conversation with his professor, that she had missed some details he’d been proud of. It was strange, not knowing for sure if Seonghwa had even bothered to see the painting, but San believed he had. It was all for him. He had to know that.

He wrote a little about his lunch with his friends, and then the walk back to campus with Jongho.

> _He said I looked alive, and I really felt it. When I was_

San hesitated, but continued writing.

> _When I was with sunbae I didn’t feel real. I felt like a mannequin dressed up like me. I don’t know if it makes sense, but I didn’t feel like myself. I guess because I didn’t let myself feel my own feelings. It’s weird and I can’t explain it. I hope you understand._
> 
> _I miss you._

San bit his lower lip as his eyes traced over the last line. He swallowed and continued writing.

> _I talked to sunbae today. He’s still mad at me, and that’s okay. I don’t really think he should forgive me any time soon. He didn’t do anything wrong and I hurt him because of my own wrong decisions._
> 
> _He also still doesn’t believe I broke up with him so I could be single. And I guess that’s fair because I didn’t, not totally. But. I don’t know. Things are hard and I don’t know what I should be doing._
> 
> _I miss you so much. I’m trying to live. I want to show you I’m okay, I can adjust to life and I can live but it’s so hard. I miss you so much._
> 
> _I feel so alone sometimes at night. I know you love me and I’m so happy to have that but I feel so alone._

His throat felt tight, knot building deep inside. San stopped and took a heavy breath. He couldn’t let it carry him away. He was okay. He was living, and he would live.

> _Sorry. I got a little_ ~~_overwhelmed_~~ _carried away. Do you remember the drama I told you about, about the girl and her estranged sister? Guess what! Sohee did end up losing all her memories!! I knew they'd do that, it was obvious when she and Jeongmin made up last episode. I wonder what they'll throw at them next. My bet is another catty ex-girlfriend. _
> 
> _Also it_ _was pretty busy at work today!! But I did draw these little seals when i got the time, aren’t they so cute? In the middle I forgot if they were supposed to have ears or not so I gave one of them a little pair. I think he looks even cuter with the ears._

San found the notepad page he’d doodled on at work and kept it by his side. He would attach it after he was done writing. For now, he still had more to say.

The truth was he would always have more to say. It was never enough. These letters, the words San was able to put down. They would never be enough to convey all that he felt. All the emotions still swirling inside him, all the guilt, the regret, the pain. The yearning. The love.

But he would write. He would write all he could, until one day it was enough. Until one day Seonghwa would understand how he felt, and come back to him. 

_I love you,_ San wrote, and the words looked pathetic, nothing in comparison to how he felt. They were all he could give.

> _I love you. I hope you’re off enjoying all the beautiful places you can be, but I hope you’ll come see me sometimes. I hope you’re reading these letters._
> 
> _I love you. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I made you think you weren’t enough for me. Instead I wasn’t enough for you. I didn’t understand how much you’d given me, how much I needed you, and I hurt you. I am sorry._
> 
> _I love you. I’m so sorry I never said it when you would believe me. I’m sorry you don’t believe me now. I know it’s my fault. I’m willing to wait until you realize I mean it, that it is the truth. You said you’d wait for me, remember? I’m waiting for you now._
> 
> _I love you. Thank you for loving me. I hope you’ll come back to me one day._
> 
> _Your star,_
> 
> _San_

That was enough for tonight. Tomorrow night San would write another letter, and the next night another, and on and on, every night, until Seonghwa came back.

He ripped the pages out of the spiral notebook, attached them to his page of doodles with a paperclip. He spent a couple of minutes decorating the margins of the pages with more pictures, precise drawings of flowers, hearts, other beautiful things that reminded him of Seonghwa. When he was done, when the page looked pretty enough, San put the letter in his bedside drawer, on top of all the others, and weighed it down with the glass rose paperweight. 

Then he shut the drawer and sent all the pages into darkness.

San stretched, easing the muscles in his shoulders and back. He put away the notebook and pen. He checked his phone for notifications, replied to a few messages from friends, set his alarm for the morning. When everything was settled he locked it and slid it under his pillow, and then he reached over and turned off the lamp.

The room plunged into darkness. San sunk down into his bed, pulling the blankets up around him as he lay down and closed his eyes. It had been a busy day. Tomorrow was another day to live.

San fell asleep in the empty dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a little consideration, I added another chapter to the count. So total chapter count is now 12! Thank you all for your love and support for this fic ^^


	10. Spoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He needed the words.

Time moved like a living thing. It slipped between San’s fingers like water, before curling back and wrapping around his chest, choking him.

His painting was put on display at a small art gallery and, to San’s surprise, was bought. He considered refusing, keeping his artwork with him in his apartment where he could turn off the lights and cover it with darkness every night, but in the end he decided against it. It was just a painting. The promise was in his own heart.

With some of the money San got from the sale he took his friends out for dinner. It was nothing fancy, just grilled meat at their usual restaurant, but it felt special. They ate, they drank, they laughed and had fun. By the time the night was done San was buzzing with happiness and warm alcohol. He was too tipsy to write more than a few lines before he threw himself in bed.

The rest of the money San put into buying an electric keyboard. He practiced any time he could, occupying all the free time he had at home, until he could almost play in darkness. Some nights he played slow songs in dim light before writing his letter.

The days and nights grew colder as winter solstice approached. San spent Christmas in Seoul, with his friends. They all gathered up in Wooyoung and Yeosang’s apartment, played games and ate the dinner the seven of them cooked together, and ended up sleeping in a pile of blankets and pillows in the living room. San took a moment to sneak into the bathroom with the lights off, and murmur a few words into the air.

For the Lunar New Year in February San went home to see his grandparents. They lived deep in the countryside, where there were no lit billboards to invade the rooms at night, no electric lights lining the streets. He slept there in perfect darkness as he did at home. He wrote his letters, let them rest beside his head for a while before tucking them under his pillow. 

“I’ll miss you so much,” San’s grandmother said, squeezing him into a tight hug. “I can’t believe you’re already leaving tomorrow.”

“I know,” said San. He hugged her back, holding her close. “I’ll miss you too.”

“And you’re living alone now,” said his grandfather. “I know you’re all grown up but don’t you get lonely?”

“I’m fine,” said San, smiling. And it was true. He wasn’t lonely. He had his coworkers, his classmates, his friends. He had someone he knew loved him and would come back to him one day. 

“You should find a nice boy to settle down with,” said San’s grandmother. “What about that handsome friend of yours—oh what was his name? That…”

“Yunho,” supplied San’s grandfather.

“Yes, Yunho,” said San’s grandmother brightly. “He’s very handsome you know, very kind and polite too…”

“Gran-Gran!” San squeaked, embarrassed. “He’s my friend!”

“Your grandma and I were friends too,” said his grandfather seriously. “And so were Yeosang and that loud devil of a boy who visited last year—”

“Okay, we’re not gonna talk about this anymore,” said San shrilly. 

His grandparents didn’t bring up any more embarrassing topics for the rest of San’s stay, thankfully. They saw him off at the train station, his grandfather waving and smiling with that fierce pride he wore every time his grandson left for his ‘fancy city university’, his grandmother sniffling and trying to hold back tears.

Slowly San readjusted to his usual life. He missed his grandparents and their warm, tender love, and he kept working, keeping up with class, meeting and having fun with his friends.

Early March, Mingi finally, finally got a girlfriend.

“I can’t believe a girl agreed to date you,” said Hongjoong in honest disbelief while Wooyoung howled with laughter. “How?”

“Black magic,” said Yeosang, and Jongho sniggered.

“Shut up,” mumbled Mingi. He was too embarrassed to defend himself. 

“San, Yunho, you gotta get in the game,” said Wooyoung. “I mean, even Mingi found someone.”

“Hey!” cried Mingi indignantly. 

A week later, they met the bewitched girl. She was very tall, nearly taller than San, and had a bright, easy smile.

“Yerim,” she introduced herself, and San smiled and introduced himself back. 

Her existence didn’t change much in San’s life, though sometimes Mingi could be seen smiling at his phone, and he missed a few of their spontaneous meet ups. San didn’t mind. He was glad Mingi found Yerim, because he adored Mingi and was happy to see him happy.

He wrote about it in one of his letters, how happy he was for his friend, and how secretly he was envious too.

> _Because he has her you know? Because he can talk to her and hold her and know he makes her happy. I wish I had you. I don’t want what Mingi has, all I want is you. I want what we used to have. That’s all I’ll ever want and I wish I knew it then like I know now._
> 
> _I’m so sorry. I miss you so much, I miss you every day. I love you._

San ran his fingers over the dry ink, and took a deep breath. Then he signed his letter and started drawing flowers for Seonghwa. 

Like he always did, San called his grandparents every week. He told them about his life in Seoul, small things, happy things so they wouldn’t worry. They would share stories of the small events in their sleepy little village.

One day, while the warm sun of late March shone outside, San hummed along as his grandmother told him about the new song they had learned at the senior center.

“Oh,” she said, as she suddenly remembered something. “The ghost came back last night.”

“Really?” San stretched out on his bed. He didn’t believe in ghosts, exactly, but strange things happened deep in the countryside and he knew better than to poke too much. 

“Yes, while we were sleeping,” said his grandmother. “They’re very polite, they never bother us when we’re awake.”

San hummed. He’d been told about this ghost before, how it sometimes moved things while his grandparents slept. He didn’t know how much of it was a ghost and how much was his grandfather’s tendency to forget where he left something.

“Your grandpa left the lantern at the edge of the table, like he always does,” said San’s grandmother. “I woke up in the morning and found it pushed up against the wall.”

“Oh, that is a nice ghost,” said San as he pulled a loose thread on the pillowcase. 

“They are,” said his grandmother. “It almost feels like they’re checking up on us, making sure we’re alright.”

San stopped. Something about that sounded familiar. Like words he had heard in his mind, but not in his voice. Like—

 _You love them, so you worry about them. I know._

_I’ll still check on them sometimes, if that’s alright._

It was no ghost that visited his grandparents in the night, when every room was pitch black. 

It was Seonghwa. 

“Does he come often?” asked San. There was the slightest tremor in his voice, and he fought to control it.

“He? The ghost?” His grandmother sounded surprised. “I don’t think so? And he doesn’t do much, he only moves little things like the lantern or puts your grandpa’s shoes on the side of the step. He certainly doesn’t want to hurt us.”

San knew. He’d never hurt San’s grandparents, he’d never hurt anyone—

His eyes stung, and he blinked rapidly. “So he’s taking care of you.” _Like he said he would._ San swallowed, but the tightness in his throat refused to move. 

“Well, I guess,” said San’s grandmother with a laugh. “A very nice boy, then. Don’t worry sweet, I still love you more.”

San clamped a hand over his mouth so she wouldn’t hear him sob, gasp shuddering breaths. He was taking care of them, like he’d told San he would so many months ago, he was still watching over them—

“San? Sweetheart?” 

He pulled the phone away from his face and took a deep, painful breath. “Yeah, Gran-Gran, I’m here,” said San. His voice was the slightest bit wet at the edges, and he prayed she didn’t hear. “I need to go. I’ll call you again soon, okay?”

“Okay,” said his grandmother, bright as ever. “Love you, sweet.”

“I love you too,” said San. 

He ended the call, and then stared at the screen until it went dark, choking back tears.

That night, San’s letter was brief.

He wrote to Seonghwa about what he’d done that day, his classes, his work. He wrote that he’d called his grandparents and he was glad they were doing well. He wrote that he missed him. 

And when that was done San wrote something he’d never written before. 

> _I need to talk to you._

San chewed his lower lip as he read the line over and over. He’d never asked this of Seonghwa before, telling himself he was alright with him reaching out when he wanted to, when San had earned it. But he couldn’t wait anymore. He needed to talk to Seonghwa.

> _Any night is fine. Whenever you want. But please. This is really important and I really need to talk to you, and I hope you’ll come see me. Please._

And there was nothing to say after that. San drew on the margins, rough sketches of cats hiding under flower petals, vines on a windowsill. He signed the letter as from _Your star, San_. Then he smoothed out the page and put it in his drawer. He lay down to sleep, trying not to think of strong, assured touches in the dark. 

But before San could drift off, he felt something, something like—

Something like a presence. Heavy, oppressive, almost thick enough to rest solid against his cheek. It was impossible to deny, impossible to ignore. He was no longer alone in the room.

There was something there with San. Someone.

San screwed his eyes shut tight, rubbed them with his hands. He took a deep breath. And then he waited.

Seconds passed. He could feel every one go, counting them with his heartbeat. But the presence lingered. Waiting, watching. Thinking. 

That was alright. San had waited all this time. He was willing to wait as long as needed. 

<San.>

The word was spoken softly in San’s mind. It filled every corner of it like the sweetest music, nearly bringing tears to his eyes. 

San sat up. “Seonghwa.”

There was a short silence, and then Seonghwa said, <You wanted to talk to me?>

“I did,” said San. He had so much to say, so much to ask about, ask for. But he refused to let himself get distracted. He needed this first. “I talked to my grandparents.”

Seonghwa said nothing in reply, only waited.

“They—they think a ghost is visiting them at night,” continued San. “Checking up on them, kind of.”

For some time Seonghwa was silent. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. <Do you want me to stop?>

“No,” said San. He could feel his throat tighten, and forced himself to ignore it. “Thank you. I—I didn’t know you were still doing it.”

<I told you I would,> said Seonghwa. <They are well. They talk about you at night sometimes, before they sleep. They love you very much.>

“I know,” murmured San. _Don’t you love me too?_

<I’m sorry if I overstepped,> said Seonghwa. <I thought it would sit fine with you. I didn’t know you weren’t aware.>

“I thought you stopped,” said San, but that was a lie. The truth was he’d forgotten all about it. When Seonghwa had left it was like San’s entire life had crumbled. He’d worked so hard to put what he could back together, show him he could be strong. 

And San had succeeded. He was alive and living. Some parts still felt hollow, empty, but he accepted what those parts were and he knew what he needed to fill them. 

<I didn’t,> said Seonghwa. <I told you I would. I had to follow through. For—for you, and them, and myself.>

“You can’t lie,” said San.

<No, I can’t.>

San sat still, licked his lower lip. “You told me you’d never leave me.”

Very softly, like the wind, Seonghwa said, <San…>

“You said you wouldn’t leave me,” said San, and his voice shook only a little. “You said if I didn’t leave, you—you wouldn’t—”

<You did.>

San’s breath stopped and he choked down air.

<You left,> said Seonghwa. He didn’t sound emotional, voice tinged with sadness but calm. <You realized it, that I wasn’t enough for you. I didn’t lie to you. But I might’ve lied to myself, thinking we could stay like that.>

“No, we couldn’t have stayed like that,” said San. “Back then I didn’t really understand. I do now.”

<San—>

“Did you read them?” 

Silence followed the question. Seonghwa’s presence was still in the room, heavy in the air. He hadn’t left.

“The letters I wrote you,” said San. “Did you?”

Yet more silence. And then, finally: <Yes.>

“Then you know,” said San. “You know what I feel for you.”

<You…> Seonghwa trailed off. <Oh, San.>

He sounded so pained. Like San had taken what should have been his heart and dug his fingers in it, squeezing the words out like blood. And it hurt San too, it hurt him to know Seonghwa was hurting, but he couldn’t let go. He needed the words. He needed every drop of blood they came with. 

“You’ve been reading them every night, haven’t you?” asked San. “Why didn’t you ever say anything? Why did you ignore me all this time?”

<I was waiting,> said Seonghwa, every word painted in hurt. <I was waiting for you to get over me, forget me, move on—>

“How could I?” cried San. “Did you get over _me_ , forget _me_? Did you move on?”

<No,> said Seonghwa in a whisper. <I could never forget you.>

“And I will never forget you,” said San. “Never.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I love you, Seonghwa.”

<Don’t say that,> said Seonghwa. Begged. <Please don’t.>

“It’s the truth,” said San. “Don’t you love me?”

<I do,> said Seonghwa, and the air around San thickened as Seonghwa rushed in, heavy in emotion. <More than anything, more than everything. I could never stop loving you.>

“Then let us be together,” said San. “We could be happy together. I’m sorry and I love you so much. Can’t you come back to me?”

<You won’t be happy with me,> said Seonghwa. <You’ll always want more. I’m not like you—>

“And I’m telling you I don’t care,” said San, throwing his sheets aside as he sat up. “You don’t get to tell me what I want, or will want. I want nothing but you.”

<You think that now,> said Seonghwa, and San could almost hear his voice shake. <With time, you’ll see—>

“I’ve had time!” San got up on his knees, unable to sit any longer. “You read all the letters! Did I change? I never missed you any less, I don’t love you any less. How can you still not believe me?”

<Because how can you love me?> Seonghwa was almost solid on San’s skin, heavy, churning. <How can something like me ever be enough? How—how could you ever give yourself to me? I—I don’t—>

Seonghwa stopped dead, and San frowned, confused, until he realized why. 

San was crying. 

The first tear slid down his face, wet and hot, and he hurriedly wiped it away, hand darting up to his cheek. Another threatened to fall and he crushed it out of his eye with his other hand, then pressed his palms to his eyes to force any more tears back. He couldn’t cry. Not now.

<I’m sorry,> said Seonghwa, sounding near panicked. <I’m so sorry, please don’t cry I—I’ll go now—>

“No,” said San at once. He reached out into the air. “Stay here with me.”

He felt no touch on his hands, but the voice in his mind was clear. <I’m here,> said Seonghwa.

“Every night,” said San. “Don’t leave me again.”

He received no response. But San could still detect Seonghwa’s presence in the air. He was still there, with San, thinking of what to say next. 

Finally, he spoke. <Why did you cry?> he asked.

San swallowed, trying to put his thoughts in order. “Because you don’t believe me,” he said. “And I love you and it hurts to hear you talk about yourself like you’re not good enough for me.”

<I’m not… I’m not like you,> said Seonghwa. 

“I know,” said San.

<You won’t be happy with me.>

“That’s not for you to decide.”

Silence followed San’s words. He could still feel the almost mist-like sensation of Seonghwa’s presence, his consciousness in the air like it was tangible. San had learned to gauge Seonghwa’s mood from how he felt in the air, the way he could nearly feel him solid and real. Seonghwa was thick with emotion.

“You read everything I wrote to you,” said San into the quiet.

A brief pause, and then Seonghwa answered, <Yes.>

“That was my life without you,” said San. “Do you think I was happy like I was when I was with you?”

<You refused to forget me,> said Seonghwa.

“I couldn’t forget you,” said San. “I can’t ever forget you.”

<You would,> said Seonghwa, like a whisper. <If I told you now I would leave you, and never come back. I cannot lie. If your darkness was empty for the rest of your life, you would forget me.>

“You can’t do that,” said San quietly. 

The silence that followed was heavy. <No,> said Seonghwa after an age. <I can’t.>

“If…” San stopped, steeled himself. “If you no longer want me, I understand. But don’t think I don’t want you more than anything, or that I’ll ever stop.”

His voice traveled through the silent room. He could imagine it bouncing off the walls, echoing in his ears. He knew Seonghwa was here, watching and waiting, and San would wait too.

Finally, Seonghwa spoke. <I hurt you.>

San shook his head. “No. I made a mistake.”

<I ignored you. I was cruel.>

“You were hurt, and you were doing what you thought was best for me.”

<That is no excuse,> said Seonghwa. <You were in pain because of me.>

“No,” said San softly. “You don’t always have to give, Seonghwa. Please, now, let me give you. It was my fault. Accept me, accept my feelings. Do you love me?”

The answer came quiet, like a whisper. <Yes.>

“And you want me to be happy? You want me to have what I want?”

<Yes.>

“What I want is for us to be happy, together,” said San. “I want you to have what you want too. What do you want, Seonghwa?”

This time, the answer was longer in coming. And it was so low, so quiet San heard it deep in his mind, one word spoken like it was the most precious in existence.

<You.>

San reached out again.

Seonghwa took his hands and held them tight.

“Don’t leave me again,” said San, holding his hands to his chest, feeling that touch spread to embrace all of him. “I won’t leave you so don’t leave me.”

<Never,> said Seonghwa. <For as long as you’ll have me, I will be with you. I love you, angel.>

San smiled. “I love you too.”

<I’m sorry,> said Seonghwa, as his touch spread to San’s face, leaving soft, lingering presses. Kisses. <I’m so sorry, love. I read all your letters, I couldn’t believe you—for me, that you would feel that way because of me… San, my star, my love, I’m so sorry.>

“I’m sorry too,” said San. He wanted to cry, but kept himself in check. Seonghwa would not want to see him cry. “I’m sorry I thought I wanted him. I’m sorry I didn’t realize how much you mean to me. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

Seonghwa stroked San’s hair, pressed a kiss to his lips. <You don’t need to apologize to me,> he said softly. <You’ve apologized more than enough times. Thank you. Thank you for wanting me again, love. I will be with you as long as you wish.>

And San wanted him forever, to the rest of his days, as many days and nights as he had. He knew Seonghwa did not wholly believe he would stay with him. He was willing to spend every moment with him convincing him of the truth.

“I love you,” said San.

<And I love you,> said Seonghwa.

He kissed San. Soft against his lips, firm in the embrace around his body. San let his eyes flutter closed, giving himself to the touch he had been desperate for all these months, and one final tear slipped from his eye.

<You’re crying again,> said Seonghwa, still with his embrace around San.

“I’m happy,” said San. He wiped the tear from his face, and smiled. 

<I think I understand,> said Seonghwa. <I’ve never felt anything like this. Like I might burst, like it’s too much. You’ve made me feel so much more than I ever thought I could, San.>

“I’ll make you happy,” said San. “I’ll make you happy like you make me.”

<You already have,> said Seonghwa.

And then he kissed San once more, leaning him back in bed, laying over him. A solid, comforting presence over his chest that spread all the way to the tips of his fingers. Something San could never have with anybody but Seonghwa, something he had needed more than all the words he could have written in his letters. His touch, his loving heart, his careful attention and kindness. 

Everything about Seonghwa was special and unique. San loved him, and only him. 

As San closed his eyes, the weight of Seonghwa resting lightly on his skin, he finally felt whole. 


	11. Chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt whole, and alive. 

October afternoons were crisp and fresh, veering into cold when the wind picked up. On the trees the leaves withered and then fell. They carpeted the ground, a striking picture of reds and golds and browns, near glowing in the light of the sun as it arced across the sky.

San bent down and took a picture.

His polaroid camera buzzed and spat out a photograph. San inspected it, gave it a shake, and then slid it into the inner pocket of his jacket. It was his second photo of the day, and fit neatly against his first, a shot of the sky against the naked trees. 

“San!”

At the sound of his name San turned and smiled. “Hey,” he said. “Class done?”

Wooyoung nodded. “So you coming out with us tonight?” he asked. “Hongjoong-hyung wants to celebrate surviving his project submission.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” said San, matching Wooyoung’s grin. “I’ll meet up with you guys after work?” 

He got the name of the place from Wooyoung, as well as the time they would all meet up. “You’re probably gonna be dead tired,” said Wooyoung, frowning. “Sorry, it’s because Yeosang has work tomorrow and he doesn’t get off until after nine, and then Mingi—”

“It’s fine,” said San with a laugh, giving Wooyoung a squeeze and a shake. “I won’t be tired at all. I only had like two classes today, and there probably won’t be too much to do at work. I’m excited to go out with you guys.” 

And it was true. San loved going out with his friends, spending time with them. He was in his final year now, and he couldn’t help but feel that every moment was precious, that soon they would slip away and he would move into a new stage of his life. And it was exciting, but daunting too. San was determined to enjoy as many moments in life as he could.

So he would meet up with his friends whenever he had the energy and the time. Between classes, for lunch, over the weekends. And at night, to go eat and drink and have fun. It was good. San was happy. He felt whole, and alive. 

He wasn’t lonely anymore. He could barely even remember what loneliness felt like. 

He and Wooyoung talked for a while longer, and then San had to leave for work. As expected, work was slow. San spent most of his free time doodling to keep busy, or talking with his coworkers. As with his university moments, he couldn’t help but feel this chapter of his life ending as well. It was only a part time job, after all, and soon San would be a graduate. He would miss it and his coworkers, but he looked forward to the future too.

The doodles San especially liked, he pulled the pages out of his notebook and slid them inside his jacket pocket. They fit in with the polaroid photos he had taken earlier that day, as well as a sticky note with a message saying he was going drinking with his friends and would be late.

Then San closed up his jacket, making sure no light would peek in. 

By the time he got off work night had fallen, and golden street lamps cast shadows underneath neon city lights. San considered taking the bus, but then decided against it and hailed a cab.

As the car rolled along the city streets, San took out his sticky notes and wrote another brief message, saying he was heading to the bar. He squeezed drawings of hearts and flowers around it, and then pulled off the note and tucked it into the dark confines of his jacket’s inner pocket.

One day, he told himself, he’d figure out a way of getting messages sent back.

Hongjoong’s favorite bar was surprisingly busy for a weeknight, a steady stream of humanity entering and exiting the building, other people milling outside. San walked in and quickly spotted his friends in one corner, Hongjoong’s newly dyed silver hair shining like a beacon. He called out to them and Wooyoung yelled back, and then San walked over, already bubbling with good energy, throwing his arm around Yunho.

“Thanks for coming,” said Hongjoong. “I know you had work and you must be super tired but you still came, so thanks.”

“Of course,” said San with a smile. “Like I’d miss out on free alcohol.”

Hongjoong laughed. “Who said anything about free?”

He complained about it, but did buy the round of drinks. The others had gone through a few by the time San had arrived, and Yeosang was pleasantly tipsy while Wooyoung slowly veered off into drunk territory.

The conversation flowed, going from Hongjoong’s project to Mingi’s job and then finally to impending graduation. San couldn’t help but feel a light flutter in his belly as they talked of it.

“Aww, man, shut up,” whined Wooyoung. “I don’t wanna think about that.”

“It’s gonna happen whether you think about it or not,” said Hongjoong. “Better to be prepared.” Wooyoung just whined again, wordlessly this time, and buried his face in Yeosang’s shoulder. 

“What about you, San?” asked Yeosang. “How do you feel?”

“A little weird, maybe,” said San. Tired too, wishing he could go home for even half a moment and fall into a loving embrace, but now was not the time to think on it. “But I think I’m okay with it. It’s like the next step, you know? And I’m excited to see what’s coming up.” 

“I hate it,” said Wooyoung, his face still buried in Yeosang’s shoulder, voice muffled. “Everything’s gonna be different.”

“Not everything,” said San, smiling. “I’ll still have you guys, and all of the people who care about me.” 

Wooyoung sneaked a look. San beamed at him, and Wooyoung snorted and sat up. 

“Okay, we’re gonna stop talking about this,” he said loudly. “I wanna be drunk and stupid.” 

“You already got one down,” said Mingi, and Wooyoung leaned all the way across Yeosang and Jongho to smack at him. 

Like Wooyoung asked, they stopped talking about graduation. Instead Jongho told them about his recent dinner with his girlfriend’s family. 

“Soojin’s dad told me to take care of her,” he said with a little chuckle. “It was kind of scary.”

“He probably thinks you’re gonna marry her,” said Yunho. 

Jongho paused, thinking it over. “I probably will.”

“Whoa, for real?” Mingi’s eyes went wide. 

“Yeah,” said Jongho, with a shrug like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve never really thought about it before but… yeah. When we’re both stable and can afford it, I’m gonna marry her.”

“Oh that is so sweet!” cried San. He threw himself over Jongho, pulling him into a hug, and Jongho let him. 

“Okay, that calls for another round,” said Hongjoong, and San cheered and squeezed Jongho tighter. 

They got more drinks, talked about anything and everything. San glanced over at the bar and saw a young man sitting there alone, tall and handsome, half empty glass in hand. He poked Yunho. 

“Hey, that guy’s pretty hot, isn’t he?” he said, motioning with a nod of his head.

Yunho looked over at the man at the bar. “Yeah, I guess.” 

“You should go talk to him,” said San. “I saw him looking over this way, he was making eyes at you.”

“No way,” said Yunho at once. He paused. “Really?”

“Really,” said San, grinning. “I’m sure he’d love to have a drink with you.”

Yunho made a few pointless attempts at refusing, and then got up and approached the man at the bar. Sure enough, in a few minutes they were deep in conversation, smiling at each other and occasionally laughing. 

“Did Yunho go find himself a hot guy?” asked Wooyoung, when he was finally aware enough to realize Yunho was no longer with them. He straightened, looking over Jongho’s head. “Shit, he did! Let’s go embarrass him.”

“That’s what we’re not gonna do,” said Hongjoong, grabbing Wooyoung to make sure he wouldn’t go anywhere. Thankfully the alcohol had made Wooyoung too weak to put up much more than a feeble protest. 

With the others not-so-inconspicuously spying on Yunho, Yeosang leaned into San. “What about you?” he asked. 

San knew what he was asking. He smiled. “Not interested.”

“It’s been almost two years since you dated anyone,” said Yeosang. “Since you even looked at anyone.”

“Yeah, I think I’m over dating,” said San. Yeosang looked at him, as though he needed a moment to be sure he really meant it, and then nodded.

Of course, Yeosang didn’t know. San made a silent promise to tell him the truth one day, when the time was right. For now, he would drink and have fun. 

The rest of the night passed easily. Yunho left first, with the handsome stranger, trying to ignore San and Wooyoung’s embarrassing cheers. When it became obvious Wooyoung and Mingi had had enough alcohol the others left for their respective homes, Hongjoong taking Mingi to keep him safe at his studio apartment.

San went home to his. He wasn’t anywhere near drunk, only pleasantly buzzed. The alcohol sat warm in his veins, and he shifted impatiently in the taxi. He wanted to get home. 

Finally, after too long, the car stopped in front of the familiar building, gray and forbidding, boxed in by three other near identical structures. Home. 

San took the stairs two at a time, going all the way up to his floor. He unlocked the door, and the light of the foyer spilled into his apartment, illuminating the edges of everything inside, casting dark shadows. “I’m home,” he announced loudly, and then he walked in and closed the door behind him. 

As soon as the last ray of light was gone, as soon as the black of the darkness inside blanketed everything once more, San felt the presence snake in, moving around him and over his skin like a mist just beyond the edge of being tangible. He smiled.

<I missed you.>

“I missed you too,” said San. He fell forward, fearlessly, and was caught in a steady embrace that had no warmth. 

<You need to stop doing that without warning,> said Seonghwa. <One day I might drop you.>

“Like you ever could,” said San, grinning. He lifted his feet from the floor, letting Seonghwa take his weight him fully. “Carry me to the bedroom, love.”

<I’m starting to think I spoil you too much,> said Seonghwa with a chuckle in his warm voice, but he carried San all the same.

“Would you love me if I wasn’t so spoiled?” giggled San, feeling Seonghwa pull off his shoes, and then his socks. 

<I would love you no matter what.>

“Exactly, so you’ll take me spoiled too,” said San, and Seonghwa laughed, deep in every corner of his mind. 

<Are you hungry?> asked Seonghwa. He’d put San down right in front of the bathroom, just as San wanted. After nearly two years with San he was perfectly attuned to his desires. <Did you eat?>

“I ate, don’t worry,” said San. He started unbuttoning his shirt, only getting the first two undone before Seonghwa did the rest. 

<Good, you shouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach,> said Seonghwa. 

“Yes, thank you, mom,” said San, rolling his eyes. Seonghwa pinched his side, and he yelped. “What was that for?” 

<You know exactly what,> said Seonghwa, helping San out of his jeans. <Do you remember that time you got drunk here? The hangover you had the morning after?>

“How could I forget? You remind me every six minutes,” grumbled San. 

Without warning San was scooped up again, and he let out the ugliest squawk before he realized what was happening. He grumbled as he was carried into the bathroom and under the shower.

<It was cute,> said Seonghwa. <You said a lot of things you never told me before.>

“Please don’t get started on that again,” said San, burying his face in his hands.

<Cute,> said Seonghwa. And then he turned on the shower.

The water was cold, and it took San a minute to adjust. He stood still, letting the water run over him, raising his face to it. 

<Shampoo?>

“No, just the bodywash today,” said San. He held out his hand, expecting it to be deposited into his palm, but instead felt the press against his chest. He sighed, maybe a little too dramatically, and said, “Fine.”

He let Seonghwa soap him up and wash him down. He remembered the first time they’d done this, being nearly overwhelmed by all the touch around him at once. Like hands Seonghwa’s touch roamed his chest and abdomen, and yet pressed against his back too, as though he were embracing him from behind. It was like nothing San had ever thought he would experience. He tilted his head back and rested it against Seonghwa, a spot at the perfect, most comfortable height. 

<Good?>

He sounded so smug San huffed. “You’re a pervert, you know that?”

<That is literally impossible for me,> said Seonghwa with a laugh. <And I’m quite sure you’re the pervert here. You said a lot of things when you got drunk…>

San batted at him, annoyed, and Seonghwa humored him and let him feel like he was actually hitting something. And then he took San’s hands and held them tight, curling around him in a hug. 

<I love you, San,> said Seonghwa, pressing against San’s cheek in a soft kiss.

“I love you too,” said San. 

Seonghwa kissed him, full on the lips this time, and then turned off the shower. He dried San off with a towel, despite San’s insistence he could do it on his own, and then gave him his favorite set of pyjamas to wear. It was one of Seonghwa’s little quirks. He liked it when San wore matching clothes like pyjamas instead of the old T-shirts and sweatpants he’d been used to wearing at home, and of course San indulged him. 

“So what did you do today?” asked San as he made his way to the fridge. He could navigate the entirety of his apartment blind by now, and he had the added confidence of knowing Seonghwa would stop him before he walked into anything. 

<I spent some time in Canada,> said Seonghwa, and San hummed as he pulled open the fridge and felt around for a bottle of soda. He’d uninstalled the light inside a long time ago, at Seonghwa’s request. <Up where it’s only ice and stone, and whatever trees can survive.>

“That doesn’t sound comfortable,” said San. 

<Not as comfortable as here, definitely,> said Seonghwa, pushing aside the sheets as San climbed into bed. <But it is beautiful. I don’t know if you’d like it, though.>

“Maybe just to see for some time,” said San. “Did you see the pictures I took for you?”

<They were amazing,> said Seonghwa, a slight awe in his voice. <I love the leaves.>

San knew that. “I’ll bring one home for you tomorrow.”

<I’d love that.>

He knew Seonghwa didn’t see the way humans did. Seonghwa had tried to explain, but it was beyond San’s understanding, how Seonghwa didn’t _see_ , or even _hear_ , that it was instead awareness on different levels beyond what humans were capable of. It was enough for San to know Seonghwa could see the notes he left for him, the pictures he wanted to show. 

<Your drawings were beautiful,> said Seonghwa. <Who was the last sketch you drew?>

“Thank you,” said San, smiling. “It was an actor. The drama I watch on Fridays and Saturdays, the one with the police detective looking for his son? He’s the detective.”

<Oh.> A pause as Seonghwa thought something over. <He’s not as good looking as you.>

San laughed. “Of course you’d say that.”

<It is the truth,> protested Seonghwa. 

“To you,” said San, but he was touched. He knew Seonghwa truly did mean it. 

<Why don’t you know how absolutely beautiful you are?> asked Seonghwa. <I’ve never seen anyone like you.>

“Thank you, love,” said San, reaching out with a hand. Seonghwa took it, rubbed his fingers and then moved down his arm. 

<You should know how special you are,> said Seonghwa. 

“I do,” said San. “Every moment I’m with you, I do.”

Seonghwa kissed him, long and deep, sliding into his mouth. San nearly dropped the bottle before Seonghwa wrapped himself around his fingers, keeping his grip steady. 

<Good,> said Seonghwa. He stroked San’s hair, his cheeks, along the line of his jaw. <Did you have fun with your friends?>

“Yeah,” said San, and he told Seonghwa all about Hongjoong and his project, Jongho’s dinner with his girlfriend’s parents, how Yunho had gone home with the man he’d met.

<No one tried to ask you out?> asked Seonghwa.

San grinned. He’d expected this. “No,” he said with a fake sigh.

<People are blind,> said Seonghwa, and San laughed. 

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said. “I wouldn’t have said yes.”

<You know I wouldn’t mind if you did,> said Seonghwa, and this time San’s sigh was real. <If you did want to be with someone else for a night, so long as you let me know so I wouldn’t worry…>

“And you know I don’t want to, not even for a night,” said San. “You better not be saying that for yourself too.”

He said it half jokingly, but Seonghwa immediately said, <Of course not. How could I even want anyone else when I have you?>

“Exactly,” said San. 

He parted his lips, wanting another kiss, and Seonghwa obliged. <I’m happy for your friend Jongho,> he said. 

“Me too,” said San. He settled against the wall, felt Seonghwa wrap around him in a close hug. “I can’t believe he’s already thinking about getting married. I mean, it’s in the future, but he’s thinking about it! He’s growing up so fast.”

<He’s only a year younger than you, San.> Seonghwa sounded amused.

“That’s a whole year,” said San. “Enough time for a baby to be born. Which he is. A baby.”

<If you say so,> said Seonghwa. 

A silence fell, and San could feel Seonghwa, not only his touch but his own self, a soft swirl against his skin. He was thinking. San leaned back and waited for him to say what he wanted when he was ready, content to sit with Seonghwa’s light caresses still on his face. 

<Do you want that?> he asked after a long while.

“What? To get married?” San laughed. “I don’t know what I’d say at the registration office, Seonghwa.”

<No, I’m just…> Seonghwa trailed off. <I just wanted to know.>

San understood. “I know,” he said. “Honestly, not really. I’ve never thought that much about it. I don’t really need a title or whatever.”

<Ah.>

“What was that?” asked San, grinning. “A good ‘ah’ or a bad ‘ah’?”

<Just ah,> said Seonghwa. <I’ve never understood the point of marriage. But I’m not like you, there’s a lot I don’t understand.>

“I get why people do it,” said San. “But I don’t see the need.” 

Not when he had Seonghwa. San had never considered marriage before, but that had been because there had been no one he could imagine spending the rest of his life with. Now he had somebody he was already devoted to, and was devoted to him in turn, and he didn’t need a wedding to prove that. 

He had chosen life with Seonghwa, and everything that entailed. San didn’t regret it for a moment.

“Seonghwa,” he said softly. 

<Hmm?>

“Yeosang asked me if I wasn’t interested in dating again,” said San. “After all, it’s been almost two years.”

<Since… him.> Seonghwa’s tone darkened, souring at the taste of old memories. 

“Yeah, since him,” said San. “He and the others are probably gonna keep asking.”

<You could date someone, if you wanted,> said Seonghwa. <At least for a short while. I would understand.>

“I’m not gonna do that,” said San. He took a deep breath. “I want to tell them.”

<About me.>

San nodded.

A brief silence followed. <When?> asked Seonghwa. 

“I’m not sure yet,” said San. “After graduation, maybe. I don’t think Wooyoung would be able to handle the shock before that.” He snorted. 

<They won’t like me,> said Seonghwa quietly. 

“They probably won’t understand at first,” said San. He could imagine his friends’ reactions. He doubted any of them would be as accepting of Seonghwa’s existence as he had been. 

Another silence fell as Seonghwa thought over San’s words. He released San from his embrace and stopped his loving caresses on his face, but stayed there, a gentle weight like hands cupping his cheeks. When Seonghwa finally spoke, after what felt like hours, his voice was soft. <Love.>

“Seonghwa?” San kept his voice soft in turn.

<Would you leave me?>

San’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest. “No,” he said. “Never.”

<If your friends wanted,> said Seonghwa, like he hadn’t even heard, <would you leave me for them?>

“I wouldn’t leave you for anything,” said San fiercely. “Not even if I died.”

<You love them,> said Seonghwa. 

“I love you too,” said San. “You know that.”

<I do,> said Seonghwa. <I…>

Silence followed, and San braced himself for whatever was coming. More uncertainty perhaps, more refusal of the truth, the discussions they had had that had never left San’s mind. 

What he did not expect was Seonghwa grabbing San and holding him tight. San gasped a breath, letting Seonghwa’s touch settle around him, around his chest and arms and waist, firm but not painful, careful and tender and loving. 

“Seonghwa?” said San, careful. 

<San,> said Seonghwa. His voice was soft, warm. <My love, my star. I love you, more than anything in existence. Thank you for loving me.>

“No, thank you,” said San. He smiled, feeling the warmth spread in his chest. “Thank you for being with me. Of all the people in the world, you chose me, and I’m so lucky. I’m so lucky I found you.”

<I could never have anyone else,> said Seonghwa. <I could never love anyone but you.>

“And I’ll never love anyone but you,” said San. “I love you.”

<You do,> said Seonghwa, and there was a note of wonder in his voice. 

San nodded, smiling bright. 

<I love you too,> said Seonghwa. His touch moved up to San’s face once more. <So long as you’ll have me, I’ll never leave you.>

“Then stay with me, always,” said San. 

Seonghwa kissed him, long and deep, soft and gentle. It was a promise. 

They were each other’s. 


	12. Tenebrous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “San?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for being with me through this strange, wonderful journey. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did, and thank you for all the love and attention you've given _Tenebrous_ ♡

The room was dark.

Outside, the storm raged. Rain lashed against the windows, sneaking in through the ill-fitting frame. The sound of it filled the room, the hammering accompanied by the shaking of the panes in the violent wind, like a demon trying to break in. Thunder sounded from overhead. For a split second the room lit up as lightning arced across the sky, and then once again the black crowded in.

Mirae was terrified. 

The power had gone out soon after the storm had reached its peak. Her hole-in-the-wall apartment had few windows, most of which were boarded up. It was common in this side of Seoul, this underdeveloped, ignored side of Seoul, and all she had was this tiny square in her bedroom, and no light came through it. 

There were no emergency lights. There wasn’t much else outside her bed and the few things she owned: some sets of clothes, a few books, the money she’d saved up from her minimum wage job. All she had for light was her phone, and that was quickly dying. Soon the battery would run out, and she would have no defense against the darkness that was already encroaching at her feet.

It wasn’t that Mirae was afraid of the dark. She was used to the dark living in this dingy apartment, in this place crowded with a hundred other buildings where the sun was blocked out by brick and concrete during the day and the pathetic streetlights were too far down to cast any real shadows at night. It wasn’t the dark that made her curl up in one corner of her bedroom, clutching her phone like a lifeline. It wasn’t the dark she was scared of.

Mirae was starting to think there was something in the dark with her. 

She could _feel_ it. Not physically, but like something just beyond the point of tangible. The weight of it was heavy on her skin like the gaze of a predator. It was all around her, hiding in the dark, only waiting for the darkness to take her fully before it pounced.

She didn’t know what to do. Should she run? Was there any place she could get to before whatever lurked in the darkness sunk its claws into her? Mirae had no friends in this building, definitely none that would be able to shield her from whatever was watching.

And she could feel it watching. Whatever the thing was it had eyes, and they were on Mirae.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Staying like this was waiting for death. There was no place to run, nowhere to hide. Mirae couldn’t stand it anymore. How much longer? She could feel it just outside her pathetic circle of light, and it could grab her and drag her into the darkness any time it wanted. So why didn’t it? Why was it just watching her? How long was she supposed to feel her heart pound in her chest, just waiting until something ripped it out?

So Mirae swallowed and took a deep breath. Then she called out into the darkness, “What the hell are you?”

She waited, heart hammering between her ribs, but nothing happened. The presence didn’t leave. It didn’t answer. Nothing happened.

“What do you want?” cried Mirae. Her voice rose, veering higher in near hysteria, but she didn’t care. “What the hell do you want from me? Do you wanna hurt me? Kill me? What are you after? What—?”

Something touched Mirae’s foot. 

She screamed. At once she curled her feet closer to her body, moving her phone flashlight to see if whatever had touched her was still there.

It was a notebook.

One of Mirae’s, the one she used to keep track of her tight budget. It was open, and the page visible was free of any of Mirae’s messy handwriting, almost entirely blank.

Almost. There was something written on it.

With trembling hands she reached for it. There were only a few words near the center of the page, written in a hand Mirae didn’t know.

> _We’re sorry for scaring you. We won’t hurt you._

Terror spiked through Mirae’s entire body. She clutched the notebook to her chest, hands now shaking badly. The thing was _talking to her_. Whatever it was it understood her, and could talk back. It could write.

“What are you?” she asked again. “Who—who is _we_?”

For some time nothing happened. All Mirae could hear was her own heart pounding in her ears, the violent rain against the pathetic glass windows. 

And then a soft tap from the darkness in front of her.

Mirae whipped her phone flashlight to where the sound came from. There was a notepad there that hadn’t been before, one she was sure she’d put in her bag. 

Slowly, Mirae crawled towards it, keeping the light on her body as much as possible. She didn’t know how much protection it was but it made her feel safe. 

As before, there was a message written on the open notepad. This one was only one line.

> _We are the dark._

The phone fell from Mirae’s hand. She scrambled to pick it up, feeling the fear rise up her throat like bile, pushed higher with every shuddering heartbeat. She could see nothing in the pitch black around her, but the presence was still there, watching her, talking to her.

The presence. The dark?

Mirae shook her head. That was impossible. What did it mean, saying it was the dark? It made no sense. The dark couldn’t talk to people, it couldn’t watch people—

“What do you mean, the dark?” asked Mirae. She realized she could speak better now, more stable than before. It was better, knowing the thing could understand her, that it was willing to talk back. 

A few seconds passed in silence, and then there was another tap behind Mirae. Where she’d left her notebook.

She crawled back, not trusting her legs to be able to carry her weight. More lines had been written on the page, below the first two.

> _Like I said. We are the darkness itself. We are not monsters, we are the embodiment of the dark. I’m sorry for scaring you. We won’t hurt you._

Mirae stared at the words, and then she glanced back in the direction where she’d left the notepad. Whatever this thing was, it either couldn’t or wouldn’t talk, and refused to write where she could see. 

“What do you want from me?” she asked. She put the notebook down, slid it away into the cover of darkness. “Can—you can’t talk?”

The wait this time was bearable. There was less than a minute of silence before another soft tap. Mirae was ready for it this time and pulled herself to where she’d slid the notebook. There was another message waiting for her.

> _I can talk. But you will hear me in your mind, not through your ears, and you must be in the dark. We cannot come in the light._

It couldn’t come in the light. So she had been right thinking of her phone light as protection. Mirae knew this thing had no reason to tell her the truth, but it had no reason to lie to her either. 

It said she would hear it in her mind if it talked to her. Telepathy? Mirae didn’t know, but she would not give permission to this thing to enter her thoughts. Communicating through the notebook was fine. 

“Why are you here?” she asked. “What do you want?” 

Mirae pushed the notebook in the darkness. She kept the light of her phone trained on her face as she waited. This time the thing took longer answering, and at least a full minute passed before she heard the tap and retrieved the notebook with an outstretched foot.

> _We won’t hurt you. I was just hoping to talk to you._

The words pinged something in Mirae’s mind, and it took a moment before she realized what it was. _We_. _I_. Whatever the creature writing to her was, it used them interchangeably. Was it just one thing, and called itself _we_? Or was there more than one?

“Who are you?” asked Mirae. “Who… who is _we_?”

This time she didn’t bother moving the notebook. She just placed it beside her and kept the flashlight pointed away. A few seconds later she heard a soft rustle, almost lost with the rain hammering at the windows, and then a tap.

The notebook had been flipped so that the blank page was facing up. A message had been left near the top.

> _We are the dark. I was called Seonghwa, once. You may call me that._

“Seonghwa?” Mirae frowned. That was a normal human name, a man’s name. Who would call a dark monster that? 

She thought for a moment, and then asked, “How many of there are you?” before moving the light away from the notebook. The tap and message came seconds later.

> _Of me? I am one. But the dark is two._

“Two,” murmured Mirae to herself. Then there were two, but only one spoke. Or maybe they both did. Maybe this was some game they played before they tore people into pieces. 

This was dangerous, talking to something she knew nothing about, something that wasn’t human. But Mirae had to know. So she asked, “Who’s the other?”

The tap came almost immediately. Mirae jumped, and then reached for the notebook again. She frowned when she saw the answer, confused. It was only one word.

> _San._

“San?” she said aloud. “A—your name is San?”

> _No, I am Seonghwa. San cannot yet speak._

“Yet?”

> _It will take him time. It’s no matter. We have time, and for him I am willing to wait until the death of the universe itself._

There was something chilling in the words, and Mirae rubbed her arms for comfort. “Him?” she asked into the darkness. “It—he is a he?”

> _He is. He was. I don’t know what he’ll call himself now._

The conversation had turned down avenues Mirae had not expected. She didn’t know how to feel about it, knowing there were two of whatever creature this was with her in this room and only one of them was capable of communicating with her. Was the other dangerous, feral like a mindless animal? 

The one that talked—the one that called himself Seonghwa—said the other had been male. But he wasn’t now? How did that make sense?

“Who is San?” asked Mirae.

As soon as the question left her lips, as soon as she pulled the light away from the notebook, she felt a surge of fear. _I am willing to wait until the death of the universe itself._ Whoever this San was, he was somebody significant to Seonghwa. If Mirae had raised a sensitive topic she might’ve written her own death. 

She waited, breath caught in her throat. The rain was still coming down heavy, washing over the windows in a steady torrent. Her phone didn’t have much charge left.

Finally, after what felt like an age, something tapped the floor beside her. 

It had taken Seonghwa a long time to answer, and so Mirae was surprised to see there was only one new line on the page. One very short, very plain line.

> _He is my love._

Mirae read the words over and over. His love. What would fall in love with a monster hiding in the dark? Another one of it? But the one called Seonghwa said the other couldn’t talk, so perhaps he was something different. How many creatures waited in the darkness? How many were out there, looking for new prey, watching Mirae every night? 

Something tapped in another side of the room, and Mirae jumped. It took her a moment to remember. The notepad. She’d left it behind in the dark. Seonghwa had something to say, something that couldn’t wait until Mirae’s next question. 

She pulled herself in the direction of the sound, and her fingers soon hit the edge of the notepad. As expected, there was something new written in it. But the words. The words gripped Mirae’s heart, digging in with cold fingers. 

> _He was a human before, like you._

“What do you mean?” asked Mirae, voice shaking. “What—what do you mean, he _was_ human?”

She pushed the notepad into darkness with trembling fingers. The wait this time was torturous. Mirae’s heart pounded in her ears, blocking out even the sound of the rain against the windowpanes.

The tap cut through, clear like a shard of glass. Mirae grabbed for the notepad blindly.

> _When I met him, he was human. And then we fell in love. After he died he chose to become a part of me._

Cold terror rose in Mirae’s gut. So much felt wrong in the three short lines written. How much of it was true? He—Seonghwa—claimed that he and whoever this San was had fallen in love, and then after San had died he’d willingly chosen to—to what? Become a part of whatever Seonghwa was? 

It didn’t make sense. But Mirae knew that none of this made sense. Sitting in the dark with an entity that could write but not talk, that couldn’t come in the light. It all should’ve been impossible, but Mirae was here, doing it. 

She ran her gaze over the same words again and again. _After he died._ And how had San died? Even if it wasn’t love, Seonghwa had definitely wanted San, and now that he had died he apparently had him forever. So how had San died? 

Should Mirae expect the same fate?

A tap knocked her out of her thoughts. It came from the dark, back where she’d left her notebook. Mirae left the notepad behind as she went back, and was surprised to find the notebook closer than she’d expected. Seonghwa had moved it, for her sake. The thought sent a cold shiver down her spine.

Seonghwa had also turned the page, and his handwriting covered the new sheet. Mirae pulled her knees up against her chest as she read.

> _The moment I first met him I knew he was something special. And he was, so unique, so beautiful._
> 
> _He allowed me to, so I stayed by his side. Every moment with him was the happiest moment of my existence. And I never quite believed it, but he loved me just as much as I loved him. It made no sense to me, because all I am is this, empty darkness, and he is a star, but it is true. He loved me like I loved him._
> 
> _It wasn’t always easy. It was hard when he told his friends of my existence, when his grandparents passed. But it has always been worth it. We were together decades, nothing compared to how long I’ve been aware, but so much more valuable. I would not sacrifice one instant of my time with him for the rest of my infinite existence._
> 
> _He said he wouldn’t leave me, not even when he died. When he passed I kept him with me. And now I wait for him._

There was something chilling behind the sweet words. Mirae couldn’t accept the story as truth. Whatever Seonghwa was he wasn’t human, and he existed only in the dark. If San really had been a normal human, a regular person like Mirae, it was impossible he would fall in love with him. 

“He allowed me,” murmured Mirae, reading the words again. Had he? Or had Seonghwa stalked him, slithered into his home like he had into Mirae’s, and then refused to leave? 

He claimed he was the dark itself. And there was darkness everywhere, impossible to escape. 

If he wanted he could stalk Mirae forever. 

The thought sunk its claws into her, refusing to let go. If Seonghwa was telling the truth Mirae would never be free of him if he wanted her. He could follow her forever, in corners and spaces hidden from the light, and when she died he would make her a part of him, like he had this San… 

Mirae forced the thought aside. She couldn’t let it consume her, or she would go insane. “You wait for him,” she said. “What are you waiting for?”

 _You already have him,_ she thought to herself as she waited for an answer. _You already swallowed him up. What more do you want?_

Seonghwa tapped the floor beside Mirae. She turned the phone light on the notebook. 

> _I wait for him to feel._

“What are you talking about?” asked Mirae, no longer fighting the keep the shake from her voice. “For—for him to—”

This time it took Seonghwa longer to answer. Mirae fixed her eyes on her phone screen as she waited, at the battery percentage so close to hitting zero. She didn’t want to think about what would happen when it finally died. She hoped she’d charmed Seonghwa enough he wouldn’t kill her, but not enough for him to want to stay. 

Finally he was done and tapped the floor. He’d flipped the notebook to a fresh page and written more. 

> _I have existed from the existence of time, but for much of that I was not self-aware. Over time I gained the ability to think, then to retain memories, and finally to feel. Evolution, I guess you’d call it._
> 
> _I’m waiting for San to evolve._
> 
> _It took more more years than you can fathom to become what I am now. San is different, because he was human, while I was nothing. I started from nothing. I felt his self-awareness the moment he joined with me, and I believe he is already starting to form thoughts. I am waiting for him to think, then remember, and then feel._
> 
> _I don’t know how long it will take. I am willing to wait._

“He can’t—he can’t _think_?” Mirae couldn’t believe what she was reading. “And he _chose_ this? He wanted—he wanted to exist like this—”

A tap cut off her words. Mirae reached out her hand for the notepad, brought it into the light.

> _He cannot think yet. And he chose this because he loves me._

“He knew what he was getting into?” asked Mirae, but it sounded absurd even as she said it. Who would want this? Eternity being part of some… _thing_ that lived only in the darkness, only just aware of your existence, unable to even think for yourself? 

> _I never before stopped a soul as it passed through after death, so we didn’t know for certain what would happen. He was willing to take the risk._

Just as Mirae finished reading another tap sounded out behind her, and she turned to read the notebook again. 

> _It did work. He is with me, and will be. I only need to wait until he is himself again._

_But how do you know that?_ The words were already on Mirae’s lips before she stopped them. From his words Seonghwa sounded so sure, but how did he know San would be alright? How did he know he would regain his thoughts and his feelings, that he would be whatever person he was before he’d died? How did he know he would be happy?

Mirae didn’t know, and she didn’t dare ask. She felt like she’d already pushed her luck to the edge. And so she said, so carefully, “I hope you’ll be happy together.”

The tap came from where she’d put the notebook behind her.

> _Thank you._

The brief message left Mirae’s gut twisting with unease. When it was short like this she couldn’t read Seonghwa’s emotions at all. It was obvious he felt very strongly about San, that he was certain he had done the right thing with him—if the story was in fact true. But what was he doing here? 

“What do you want from me?” asked Mirae, trying to keep her voice from accusing. “Why did you talk to me?”

She directed the light away from the notepad, and seconds later she heard the tap. 

> _I hoped you could be our friend._

Dread spread through Mirae like poison in her veins. A friend. Like how Seonghwa had managed to trap San in the first place? 

“What do you mean, friend?” she asked. 

Mirae expected a quick answer, a quick lie, but this time again the tap took longer in coming. It came from behind, from by the notebook, and Mirae was surprised to find more than a few lines written for her.

> _Truthfully, I have no more interest in speaking to or befriending humans. I have San. But I thought it might help him regain his ability to think if he had someone else to speak to, someone human like he had once been. Right now he cannot form coherent thoughts, much less communicate them to you like I can, but I believe the practice would help._
> 
> _He is a wonderful person, so loving, so kind. He was such a talented artist too. You would have adored him if you had met him before. I don’t think there was anyone that met him and did not love him._

Mirae read the words over and over, feeling a strange sensation of relief sink in. They didn’t want her. They didn’t want her specifically, they just wanted a human. Maybe she could survive this. Maybe she could live through this unharmed.

But the fear remained. The fear that she was making a mistake by daring to refuse. The fear that what she would say would anger this creature, or both of them, and they would kill her right there, on the floor of her bedroom in her cramped apartment. It snaked in her belly and up through her ribcage, closing around her throat. 

“Th—thank you,” said Mirae. She swallowed the bitter fear down. She had to say this, she had to say it now. “Thank you for—for thinking of me. I… I’m sorry. I don’t—I don’t think I would be good for you. For you _two_. I’m sorry.”

Mirae screwed her eyes shut and waited. Thunder rumbled in the distance, raindrops attacked the glass of the panes and dripped down to the floor. Above it all her heart thudded an irregular beat, heavy in her ears.

_Tap._

The notebook. Mirae scrambled for it, brought it right under the light of her dying phone.

> _I understand. Thank you so much for talking to us, at least for a while._
> 
> _Again, I’m sorry we scared you. Do you want us to leave?_

Tears flooded Mirae’s eyes, blurring her vision. He was offering to leave. He was offering, and it didn’t feel like a trick, like he was playing with her. It felt genuine. Whatever owned the creeping gaze she could feel watching her from the darkness was offering to leave. 

Mirae nodded. “Please.”

Her heart beat erratically as she waited. She didn’t know what she was waiting for, but she knew something would happen, and she had to be ready for it, she had to—

Another tap. 

Mirae reached for the notebook, and read the message written across the fresh page. 

> _As you wish. We won’t be back again, don’t worry. Thank you for letting us stay with you._

As Mirae’s gaze followed the final few letters, she raised her head and realized something.

The presence was gone. The heaviness of the gaze she’d felt running over her skin all this time had disappeared, dissolved into nothing but empty air. Outside the rain still thundered down, the sky still called out rumbling and flashing white, but inside, inside Mirae was alone.

They were gone.

Mirae’s phone battery finally died, plunging the room into darkness. She buried her face in her hands and cried tears of relief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked this fic! I never expected so much interest in this fic, it was purely self-indulgent, so to have so many people read it really means a lot. No trivia post this time around, sorry. If you have any questions, feel free to drop them anywhere (twitter, tumblr, cc, here) and i will try to answer as well as i can.
> 
> Thank you to all of you for being here with me ♡

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it ♡
> 
> You can reach me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/alette_star), my [tumblr sideblog](https://seonghwa-cloud.tumblr.com) and [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/alette_star) ♡ I love talking so don't hesitate to message!
> 
> I'm writing another ATEEZ fic, [Blood, Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20176075), so if you liked my writing and want to read about the boys as vampires I hope you'll check it out ^^


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